


Do You Walk in the Meadow of Spring

by shadesfalcon



Series: I Am Flesh and I Am Bone [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alexander Pierce Is A Dick In Every Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Art Student Steve, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Student Bucky, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Recovery, Self-Acceptance, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, The power of friendship, Unreliable Narrator, part two of two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8267962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesfalcon/pseuds/shadesfalcon
Summary: With one semester down and one to go, Bucky and Steve are officially dating, and Bucky keeps telling himself that that means he's all better. He's holding down a long term relationship. He's passing his classes. He's showered almost every day for the last month. He is officially 100% better. All he has to do now is get through winter break with his family. And then through the second semester. And then third year. And fourth year. Residency. Career. Retirement. Death.Steve, for his part, isn't sure what happened. Busy working through his own grief, he's blindsided by the emotional wreck of a man that returns to him at the start of the new semester. And it just keeps getting worse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go on the second part of the journey. For those who haven't read part one, I highly recommend it, as this is a direct continuation. For those who have, welcome back.
> 
> Also, [listen to this amazing song](https://www.reverbnation.com/evaszebelledy/song/27211450-elysium) that lavenderwasteland made for this fic!

The warmth of the sunshine on Bucky’s body made it easy to forget that the air outside would be biting and cold. That the weak filtered sunlight was only a taunting and unfulfilled promises of effective heat. That there was little else out there besides punishing persistent pain.

Sarah Rogers' funeral had been quiet, but full. The somber love had saturated the room and choked Bucky with its sincerity. He hadn’t known what to do with the such an emotion, filtering through the crowded space, and had watched Steve navigate it all from a distance. And Steve had navigated like a professional, stabbing Bucky with unwarranted jealousy aimed at every person Steve so much as graced with a smile.

_He doesn’t need you. You’re only one part of his world._

Sharon and Sam – Bucky assumed that was Sam – had both made the trip up, and Bucky avoided them more adamantly than he avoided Steve. He couldn’t have answered why, if anyone had asked him, but no one did. He suspected that was because Sharon already knew the answer, and because Steve didn’t realize there was a question.

And then it was all over. Bucky and Steve had withdrawn from the dwindling crowd to the journey uptown. They’d reached the front door of Steve’s childhood home, and all the layers had fallen away like melting ice. Steve had leaned heavily against the column outside and dripped down to sit on the front porch.

“Hey,” Bucky had gasped softly, kneeling down next to him. “I’m right here.”

They had fallen asleep on the floor of the living room, both of them still in their black funeral suits. They laid on their sides, curled around each other like a yin and yang, Steve’s head tucked into Bucky’s stomach. The early morning light had woken Bucky, and he smiled softly as he ran his fingers through Steve’s soft hair.

“Is morning?” Steve mumbled, still half-asleep.

“Looks like it,” Bucky answered.

Steve responded by burying his face further into Bucky’s stomach and groaning loudly in protest. Bucky knew the feeling. The hard-cry hangover. Swollen eyes and sore throat. Heavy head. Bucky let him keep sleeping.

***

Steve had refused to sit with any doctors and get an explanation for what had happened. Instead, he had submitted a request for his mother’s medical records.

“A doctor will go through it if you ask,” Bucky had prompted while Steve stood impatiently next to the administrative desk. “They’d love to go through it with you. They want to explain what happened.” _They want to spin the story so no one sues them._ “You just have to ask.”

“No,” Steve had said. All the answer he would give, and Bucky folded beneath Steve’s refusal to make eye contact.

***

Bucky sat in the large recliner, legs spread wide, so Steve could fit between them. Steve’s back was pressed into Bucky’s front, and Bucky had his arms wrapped around Steve so he could hold the printed medical file in front of them both. It was thick and cumbersome, especially in such a position, but Steve tilted his head to the side to brush his face against Bucky’s arm, and it didn’t matter. Bucky shuffled the papers awkwardly, and cleared his throat.

“You know I’m not a doctor yet,” Bucky said, for the third time. “I’m not technically qualified to explain this to you. I have, like, zero experience with charts.”

“Just do what you can,” Steve sighed wearily.

“Right. Okay, um, it looks like cardiomyopathy. I mean, that’s stated as the cause of…um, death.” _Smooth_. “But it doesn’t look like, um. It’s not a heart attack. Wasn’t a heart attack.” Bucky furrowed his brow, trying to flip some of the pages in his hand, and Steve leaned further back into him, to try and give Bucky more room.

“There’s no clot,” Bucky said slowly. “Which is…I’m not sure how else you could…cause…”

_The pt’s spontaneous cardiomyopathy was mostly likely due to h/o peripartum cardiomyopathy. EF at admission was…_

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, and felt Steve tense. He couldn’t tell Steve this. He couldn’t do that. He didn’t want to watch that realization happen. But he also didn’t want to lie, because something was telling Bucky that this wasn’t the kind of lie Steve would easily forgive. Or would ever forgive.

“What?” Steve asked.

“Sometimes,” Bucky said, painful slow words clawing his throat, “pregnancy and delivery causes an idiopathic disease called postpartum or peripartum cardiomyopathy. It occurs mostly in younger women, and there’s not really a good explanation for why. Not that we know of anyway. It…it kills heart muscle. There’s some treatments that work sometimes, but it is sometimes fatal. And sometimes the mothers completely recover. And sometimes they recover and then suddenly relapse years later.”

Steve was very still, and Bucky wondered if he hadn’t explained properly. His own heartbeat was sharp in his chest, while Steve sat so very still.

“So it was my fault,” Steve said slowly, and Bucky made a noise of angry distress.

“It was her body’s fault,” Bucky responded sharply. This one was getting nipped in the bud. “Sometimes bodies just fuck up and die, that’s the way it goes.” He hadn’t hesitated over ‘die’ this time, which he decided to count as a win. “You do not get to mourn your own existence, like you weren’t worth the risk she went through. I won’t allow it.”

“Bucky,” Steve said softly, and Bucky couldn’t tell whether Steve was agreeing or arguing, so he pushed a little more anyway.

“I can’t pretend to know for sure why you wanted me telling you this stuff, rather than someone actually qualified to communicated medical information, but part of me hopes that it’s because you trust me more than a stranger. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Steve said, slowly drawing out the word since he knew where this was going next.

“So then trust me. Not even a little bit your fault.”

“Fine,” Steve said.

Bucky wished it could be that simple. Wished that verbal acquiescence would allow the tension out of Steve’s shoulders. Wished that cause and effect weren’t so dependent on point of view within the mind.

When Bucky had been a child, he’d once sat down on the floor and tried to build a house of cards. But he’d chosen his spot by a door that servants kept walking through. A major thoroughfare, since he hated tucking himself away in the unused corners of the house. It meant his card castle wouldn’t stay up. That every time the door drafted in his direction, the cards slid and fell. That every time someone walked near him he had to start it all again. Over and over. Tumbling slippery cards collapsing under his fingers no matter how frustrated or upset he became.

He only had to move. To scoot back a couple of feet. To retreat deeper into the house, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. And the cards kept falling.

“It’s not your fault,” Bucky said again.

“Yeah,” Steve sighed. “You said that already.”

***

The worst part had to be the money. Hands down, Bucky would die to never have to see Steve forced to bend his own pride like that.

It turned out that Steve had been paying his daily expenses with help from his father’s annual life insurance pay out, which Bucky felt like a complete moron for not realizing since not everyone in the goddamn country could just make withdrawals from their accounts without even checking the balance and Steve had called him privileged once and he’d been right. He’d been so fucking right.

Either way, the end result was that that was no longer an option. There were unpaid debts associated with the estate, and everything about death was a thousand times more complicated than it needed to be. The end result was that Steve had suddenly lost a source of income, and his mother’s life insurance would be slightly delayed, and the house would have to be sold which could take a while, and his fists just got tighter and tighter while he sat there listening to the lawyer.

“Okay,” Steve said, every time the guy paused. “Okay.”

The lawyer didn’t even seem like a bad guy, but Bucky hated him anyway just because he didn’t write Steve a massive check and say nothing but “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Standing outside the offices was the moment that broke Bucky’s heart. He watched Steve screw up his face before he slowly said, “Bucky, I can’t believe I’m about to ask this but…I…I can’t pay rent until this gets straightened out. In a couple of months…I…I just need…it’s only for a couple months, while everything gets straightened out, but I think I’m going to need--”

“I’ll take care of it,” Bucky said quickly, to spare Steve the pain of finishing the stumbling request. “Don’t even worry about it.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Steve said, still not relaxed even after getting what he needed.

Bucky didn’t know what it felt like to have enough pride for it to shatter, but he bet it hurt like fuck.

***

The day before they were supposed to drive back home to the apartment, Bucky realized he hadn’t seen Steve in hours. He’d been packing up the things that Steve had sorted out to keep, leaving everything else for the estate sale, walking the heavy boxes out to the car and refusing to let Steve help worth shit. The colder weather had brought an upswing in Steve’s breakthrough attacks, and his Albuterol inhaler was making more and more frequent appearances. Bucky thought he should get himself some Fluticasone too, but he wasn’t stupid enough to bring it up at the moment.

Bucky set the packing tape back down on the cleared off kitchen counter and let his eyes wander the empty room. It wasn’t physically empty, still filled with furniture and a mussed blanket, but it felt empty. It felt like the endless rooms in Bucky’s parents house had always felt. Bucky shuddered and went to look for Steve.

It took two times through the small house to find him. Bucky had already dug his phone out, prepared to call Steve and ask had he fucking run off somewhere, but at the last minute he double-checked Steve’s old bedroom, even though the lights were off.

Steve was sitting in the dark, way near the back of the room, with something over his face. It startled Bucky enough that he flipped the light switch without warning, and Steve flinched at the light, jerking the mask off of his face. Because it was a mask. A nebulizer mask, specifically. It had clearly been too small for Steve’s face, a child’s mask, and angry red lines framed his nose and mouth where the elastic band had unforgivingly pulled the sharp plastic against that fragile skin.

“You okay?” Bucky asked carefully. The nebulizer wasn’t even on, and Bucky knew for a fact that Steve didn’t have the medication for it anyway.

“Fine,” Steve said thickly. “Sorry. Found this in my closet. Used to wear it all the fucking time as a kid. God, the _hours_ I spent with this thing while…”

While his mother sat next to him. Steve didn’t have to say it for Bucky to understand it.

“You want to put it back on?” Bucky asked gently, still standing in the doorway.

“No,” Steve snorted, moving like he was going to get up. “It was stupid anyway. Stupid thing to do.”

Bucky turned off the light as suddenly as he had turned it on, making Steve freeze in his half-standing position.

“Do you want me to leave, so you can put it back on?” Bucky’s asked. Rephrase the question.

Steve sat back down. Bucky took it for the answer that it was, and pulled the door shut behind him as he left.

***

The drive back was tough. Bucky drove, while Steve sat curled up and squished around all the boxes they’d managed to shove into the car. Bucky hadn’t ever considered his car small before, but then he’d rented a U-Haul last time he’d moved any significant percentage of his life.

***

Being back home was less tough. When they walked into the apartment, Steve took the first deep breath Bucky had seen him take since everything had started. Bucky hurried to turn the heat back on in the apartment, and Steve laid down on the couch to stare at the ceiling.

Bucky made the rounds of the apartment slowly, trying to get the space used to them again, tired of feeling like he was standing in an empty house, until he eventually made his way back over to Steve.

_How are you feeling?_

He’d never been the one wanting to ask before, but the question still made his stomach twist in apprehension. He wanted to do something. To reach out and fix. To manipulate. To prescribe.

“I’m okay, Buck,” Steve said wearily, staring up at him.

_I didn’t ask._

“Okay.”

He sat down on the couch at Steve’s feet and stared at the dark television like it was the ceiling. There was probably something to be said here. Something hanging in the air and ready to be touched, but Bucky’s bumbling fingers were never going to find it. The most useless- Steve should find someone who could-

“Thank you,” Steve said gently, and Bucky froze in nausea. “For coming with me, instead of going home.”

"Easy choice,” Bucky said thickly.

“Still,” Steve wriggled around, flipping to put his head against Bucky’s thigh without ever actually sitting up, and Bucky quickly tried to blink away tears. Even when the tragedy was Steve’s, Steve was still the comforter. Bucky leaned down sharply, on sudden impulse, and kissed Steve’s forehead. Steve took the opportunity to grasp him by the neck and drag him further down to a sloppier, more desperate, kind of a kiss.

“What do you need?” Bucky gasped. “Right now, what do you need?”

“God, shut up,” Steve sighed, and kissed him again.

***

On paper, it was the shittiest two weeks of Bucky’s life. In practice, it was the best. He and Steve went out and bought a waist-high plastic Christmas tree from Wal-Mart, setting it up in the middle of the living room and decorating it with dollar store lights. The cord was too short to reach all the way to where they had put the tree, so they’d had to buy an orange extension cord too, and both Bucky and Steve had tripped over it more times than was plausible, but they both refused to do anything to solve the problem. Even when Steve managed to drop a full mug of coffee when he wandered into the living room too early in the morning.

“Fuck, now the rug is stained,” he’d complained from the floor.

“That rug was already stained,” Bucky had scoffed. “Just leave it.”

***

Steve was not looking forward to Bucky leaving for two weeks. There were some not selfish reasons – Bucky did not appear to enjoy the idea of going home, and Steve suspected there were some good reasons – but mostly they were entirely self-centered. He didn’t want to lose the emotional anchor Bucky was becoming.

Steve knew that if he mentioned that to Bucky he’d just get a brief scoff in response; that Bucky did not consider himself anywhere near stable enough to qualify as an anchor, but it was the best Steve had, and he certainly wasn’t complaining about it. Bucky had lost some muscle mass since the beginning of the semester, but he was still a physical unyielding heaviness when Steve needed it. He’d fallen asleep on Bucky more times than he’d expected. At that was just the physical stability. Now that Steve was getting better at reading Bucky, things were becoming more predictable. Steve could cut problems off before they festered. He could both ask for and give what was needed. He was starting to feel like there weren’t any surprises they couldn’t find a way to weather.

***

“You want to have our Christmas after you get back or before you go?” Steve asked one night. Bucky’s breath caught in the dark at the implicit _our_ , and he buried his face in his pillow to hide his grin. Steve just kissed the back of his neck in retaliation for the withdrawal.

“Can we do after?” Bucky asked, muffled. “I think I’ll need it when I get back.”

“No problem.”

***

It was the stupid headphones that had the worst fucking timing in the world. Or rather, it was Bucky with the worst timing, but it made him feel better to blame it on the headphones. Blaming an inanimate object was just a thousand times better than being forced to face his own stupidity, or inadequacy, or just general bad-penny nature.

“They’re not going to be in my backpack, Steve,” Bucky huffed in annoyance. “I haven’t touched it since I got back from that last final, and I have no intention of touching it again until January 6th. And I was using those headphones, like, two days ago.”

“Mom always says….said…that when you lose something and can’t find it in the places it’s supposed to be, then you start looking in the places it isn’t supposed to be.”

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek, choosing to ignore the slip of present versus past tense, and starting pulling the cushions off the couch while Steve started pulling notebooks and pens out of Bucky’s backpack. He had a point, after all. Bucky was the one who couldn’t find his stupid headphones, so who was he to tell Steve where to look and where not to look?

He didn’t notice the still silence until Steve broke it.

“Bucky? _Shit,_ Bucky!”

“What?” Bucky gaped, dropping the cushion back on the floor; spinning to look at Steve, whose voice had been tinged with panic. Steve was kneeling on the floor, knees spread apart, looking down a wrinkled mash of papers that had obviously been found crumpled down in the bottom of Bucky’s backpack.

“What is it?” Bucky asked again, but he suddenly realized the answer when Steve looked up at him in horror.

“This is my hospital bill!” Steve choked out. “You had it in your backpack the whole time. Shit, Bucky, that’s... _shit_! I could be in a lot of trouble for not paying this. Why didn’t they call? How did you not notice you’d shoved it in your backpack?”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He allowed Steve get quickly to his feet and dig for his phone. He allowed Steve get as far as starting to dial whatever number he’d decided to dial, before he interrupted. He allowed it to go on that long because every second he didn’t speak up and explain was another second that Steve was only generically pissed off, rather than pointedly furious.

Of course this had to happen just a couple of days before Bucky left. Of course it did.

“Steve,” Bucky said thickly.

“Hold on,” Steve said, pinning the phone between his shoulder and his face so he could better hold the papers and squint at them in concern. Probably trying to look for a deadline, or anything else that would be important if it hadn’t already been taken care of.

“Steve, I already paid that,” Bucky said, more loudly.

Steve looked up at Bucky, freezing for a moment, and then quickly taking the phone away from his face and hanging up, just as Bucky could hear the faint “hello this is St. Josephine’s hospital” through the speaker.

“This isn’t mine?” Steve asked, forehead wrinkling in confusion. Bucky wanted to cuss him out for taking so long to catch on, but he also wanted to wrap him up and kiss him for giving Bucky so much benefit of the doubt.

A small part of Bucky’s brain was trying to remind him that he’d paid that bill in good faith. That it had been a nice thing to do. That the whole visit had partially been Bucky’s fault because he’d been causing Steve so much stress at the time. Because he’d been hiding in his room instead of sitting next to Steve where he could have demanded a doctor’s visit to look at that cough. Where he would have heard the signs of an oncoming attack. He’d been being nice, and he certainly didn’t miss the money.

The rest of Bucky’s brain realized that Steve was not going to see it that way, and that there was no way this wasn’t about to be anything other than ugly.

“No, I paid your bill. It’s already paid.”

There were about three more blissful seconds of confusion on Steve’s face before it contorted into anger, which then faded away into its own blank calm. Bucky knew better than to accept that at face value. He knew better than most what a blank calm was likely to veil.

“You paid my hospital bill?” Steve confirmed. They were both just echos of each other. Parroting back each other’s phrases as temporal wards against the inevitable. Bucky almost attempted to justify his actions, scraping together a few mental defenses against whatever accusations Steve was going to throw. Steve almost threw them. He drew in a breath with a twisted sneer to his lips, but seemed to catch it on some obstacle in his throat. Like it was closing up.

“Why?” was all he managed instead.

“Why not?” There were barely monosyllables left in Bucky. Sometimes it surprised him that he made noise at all.

“That wasn’t your fucking right,” Steve responded, his voice filtered through grief. "It wasn't your right to interfere in my life like that."

_Well, I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known it would be one more block in the stack of your encroaching personal riptide._

Lie.

Bucky didn’t answer, and Steve waiting until his limited patience ran thin and then, rather than bursting into verbal rage, he pursed his lips and nodded a few times to himself.

“Have you tried looking in your car?”

“What?” Bucky stumbled.

“For your headphones. Have you tried looking in your car?”

Bucky would have prefered to be verbally flayed.

Both of them slept alone in their own bed that night. Not, strictly speaking, because Bucky had been told to, but more likely because neither had the prerequisites available to attempt anything else. More accurately, however, Steve slept alone in his bed while Bucky stared at his ceiling contemplating how he was always the one who crawled into Steve room. Steve never came to him.

The thought was almost discarded as disingenuous by the time morning broke, and was completely discarded as irrelevant by the time the next night rolled around. It was Bucky’s last night in the apartment before winter break, and it would take a lot more than approaching de trop to force him to risk this being the end of everything.

Bucky hovered next to Steve’s bedroom while Steve finished getting ready for bed in the bathroom. The light slipped out of the crack in the unlatched door while Steve spit unflavored toothpaste into the sink. Bucky knew it was unflavored because mint or cinnamon bothered Steve’s lungs, so Bucky bought plain and somehow he expected that to be sufficient justification to ask Steve if he was still allowed to curl up next to him in bed.

Steve finished rinsing and stepped out into the hallway, hesitating but not stopping when he saw Bucky waiting for him.

“Am I allowed in?” Bucky asked. It was more honest of an inquiry than he’d intended when he’d drawn the breath to speak.

“Of course,” Steve answered - like that phrase held any weight - and he walked past Bucky into his room. He did leave the door open behind him.

“You’re not mad?” Bucky pushed, following. He might not like the answer, but it was better to know. To anticipate reactions with the proper set of paradigms in place for the interaction.

Steve sighed in a way that meant ‘yes’ and said, “No.” But then he continued with, “I understand that you were helping out in a way that didn’t seem like a big deal to you, but the fact that you didn’t tell me means you knew I’d have refused if I’d been given the option. That’s what I’m upset about. Think how you’d feel about me going behind your back.”

It was a fallacy of premise, assuming he wouldn’t allow Steve to do whatever he pleased with Bucky, but Bucky understood the point in theory. He climbed into his usual spot in the bed and tucked his arm under his head to look at Steve lying next to him.

“I understand,” he said. “If I want to do something you won’t like again, I’ll either have the conviction to do it to your face, or I’ll let it go.”

Steve seems to consider the proposal, but Bucky wasn’t particularly worried. He was getting to know Steve pretty well, and he knew that was exactly the kind of compromise that would appeal to Steve. Neither giving ground, but both agreeing with each other. An oxymoronic peace treaty.

“I can live with that,” Steve said, and kissed Bucky gently before turning over and going to sleep.

He kissed him again the following evening, leaning over the center console of his 2001 Honda Civic, idling in the airport “departures” thoroughfare, and Bucky tried to smother the thought that it had been too quick and chaste for the precipice of a two week separation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a degenerative exercise in emotional manipulation and gaslighting, so please be careful. This will be the only chapter like this, and I do feel it's skipable if you need to do so. The only thing that you might lose is the emotional continuity and a very few references later in the fic.

 

 

 

Bucky slid out of the car’s backseat and smiled politely at the driver. The expression was not returned, but Bucky hadn’t expected it to be. He continued smiling politely while men gathered his luggage and moved it all en masse toward the house looming behind him. Bucky had, so far, managed to avoid looking directly at it, but that was a puerile attempt. Refusing to look behind you in a nightmare. It didn’t matter if you turn or not; there was always something bigger than you just over your shoulder.

Speaking of which, Bucky had expected his father to meet him on the steps - why waste the opportunity of an off-balance arrival? - but there was no one to be seen but the men disappearing with his luggage and the driver disappearing with the car. Bucky pursed his lips against the apparent lack of an opening move and turned on his heel to march up the steps. When he pushed through the front door, he almost ran directly into Anna, balanced precariously on high heels that were tall enough that she likely thought they made her look older rather than younger.

“Hey,” Bucky said, startled into speech. Anna drew back quickly, in similar surprise.

“James?” she asked, with a slight lift to her eyebrows. Inquiring with his name, as though the disheveled under-washed mess standing between her and the rest of her day could be anyone other than her older step-brother. They’d only seen each other for holidays since Bucky had started his undergraduate, but that wasn’t enough to forget each other’s faces.

“Bucky is fine,” he assured her. “You don’t have to call me James.”

The tentative half-smile disappeared from her face as quickly as it had appeared, and she made an aborted gesture, as though to look over her shoulder.

“James,” she said, voice low. “There are some things that aren’t worth the fight in this house.”

“James is fine, too,” Bucky responded dryly. “How have you been?”

“Very well, thank you for asking.” She was wearing a bright green sweater over a white collared button up, hair pulled back and earrings dangling delicately. She looked ready for an interview or a professional dinner. Bucky looked like he’d just spent the last month in hell and hadn’t had a chance to shower afterward. Even the cloth was muted and colorless, contrasting against Anna’s green accents.

She hadn’t reciprocated the question to ask how he was doing, and Bucky was suddenly as done with the conversation as he could be.

“I’ll let you go,” he said, stepping out from physically blocking her route from the house.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” she informed him. “Wear something nice.”

Bucky was as aware of the dress code as he was as aware of not currently meeting it, but he kept his mouth closed as Anna swept past him. It was good practice for the next two weeks. Don’t move, don’t look, don’t speak, don’t breathe.

He climbed to his old room in absolutely silence and was mildly surprised to see it was still considered his own. His luggage had been lined up and laid out with more care and attention than it had previously been shown in its life. Some of his things were still on the desk and on the bookshelf.

He typed out a message to Steve - _Arrived safely. Miss you already._ \- but amended it to just - _Arrived safely._ \- before he sent it.

 

***

 

Bucky entered the dining hall at 5:55pm sharp. Five minutes early, but not early enough that any significant conversation could get going before there was food on the table to effectively gag himself with. Eating as an excuse was an art. You had to keep food in your mouth the majority of the time, without shoveling in enough to get called greedy, or inappropriate, or - if his timing was truly horrocious  - a pig.

Everything in this house was a balancing game. Be early, but not too early. Eat, but do not eat too much. Be polite to guests, but do not let them have their way. Be pleasantly obtuse, but not...whatever the undesirable antithesis of stupidity was. That one had never been enough of a problem for Bucky for him to find out. Probably a smart ass.

Back to the point about being on time. Bucky walked into the dining room at 5:55pm to find his family sitting at a fully served table in absolute silence, watching him enter. Bucky couldn’t help the flicker of sightline to check the time on the oak grandfather clock beside him. It wouldn’t do him any good, and it would give away his thoughts, but he couldn’t help it.

“Thank you for joining us, James,” Alexander condescended with a phlegmatic smile.

“Apologies,” Bucky admitted, with a slight tilt of his head. “I seem to have misunderstood what time dinner is served.”

“Five thirty,” Anna said, with a strained smile. She was sitting still, hands in her lap, untouched plate in front of her. “If I’d realized your were unsure of the time, I would have provided it to you along with my recommendation for outfitting yourself. Although, I see you’ve taken at least that to heart.”

Hadn’t Bucky been telling Steve just a few weeks ago that Anna was a sweet girl?

_Frayed around the edges._

“Apologies,” Bucky repeated, walking to take his seat.

“So, James,” his father began, and Bucky resisted starting his meal with the entire glass of wine in front of him - sitting there as a temptation to show the worthless hand they all already knew he was holding. “Why don’t you tell us something about how school is going?”

“Really well actually, thanks for asking.” _Sell it. End this conversation topic._ “We didn’t have any free time during neurology, so I can’t say I was sorry to see that one end, but human behavior was actually a lot of fun. Still a lot of work, but probably my favorite class so far.”

“And here I thought histology was your favorite class,” Alexander said dryly, not looking up from his plate. “Considering the lengths you went to in order to take it twice.”

“I didn’t take it twice,” Bucky responded on reflex. _Stupid. Handing over the serve of the conversation._

“That’s right,” Alexander continued, this time sparing Bucky a glance. “I’d forgotten that failing a class means you only have to repeat the final exam, not the entirety of the material.”

There was something visceral about the word “failing” that Bucky would probably never manage to disassociate from moments like this one. He continued to resist the temptation of the wine, and promptly gagged himself with a faceful of poulet de provencal. The quality of the meal was a counterpoint to its environment. Steve would have liked it. He both hated cooking and going out for a meal, but on the few occasions Bucky had seen him eat something of quality, there’d been an expression on his face that Bucky had been eager to see again.

“Nothing else to add?” Alexander pressed. Everyone else seemed to be eating quietly and Bucky entertained a brief fantasy of responding ‘nope’ and continuing with his own meal. Instead he smiled apologetically, and continued to chew until he felt he could no longer believably do so. Then he swallowed thickly.

“I did hit a few snags with histology, but I’m happy to say no further difficulties have been encountered.”

“Yet you said you didn’t have any free time during neurology.”

“Much. I didn’t have much free time during neurology. And that’s b-”

“No, you said ‘any.’ I’m quite sure of it,” Alexander interrupted.

“Okay. I didn’t have any free time, because neurology is a complicated and unique type of class. It needed all my attention.”

“So did histology. I wonder what quality neurology had that earned the revival of your work ethic which histology so failed to possess.”

Bucky gagged himself with a bite of potato that probably should have been cut in half before going in anyone’s mouth.

“Slow down, dear,” his mother said softly. “You’ll choke.”

Bucky’s gaze, drawn to his mother when she spoke - she was usually so quiet - drifted to briefly encounter Anna, sitting across from him tight-lipped while she stared at her own plate. She hadn’t eaten much - nearly the same amount as Bucky - but she hadn’t been distracted by games thrown her way. Rather, she’d used the time to cut everything on her plate into tiny little pieces.

_Frayed around the edges._

“James?” Alexander said, effectively reclaiming Bucky’s attention.

“I’m sorry, what was the question?”

Alexander frowned, thrilling Bucky with abrupt fear, and said, “We were discussing why you found the self-discipline to apply the necessary effort to neurology but did not feel inclined to do so with histology. Although if you can’t follow a conversation thread for more than a few minutes at a time, I wonder if it’s your capabilities that are the difficulty, rather than your application of them.”

“I can’t say what happened with histology. Perhaps the subject matter was just different from the way I think. The lecturers didn’t tend toward my learning methods, and I had to waste a lot of time searching for resources that fit with my needs.”

_Stupid, you’ve admitted a to a difficulty and still haven’t given him a satisfactory answer. He’ll just come back to it later._

“Yet you managed to pass the retake,” Alexander pointed out. “You managed to find the wherewithal to meet all expectations when you had no other options. I don’t think your admitted learning difficulties are completely to blame.”

“Why are we having this conversation?” Bucky asked, frustration leaking into his tone. _Stupid. Another admitted weak point._

“I want to help you create a method of dealing with these problems before they become insurmountable,” Alexander said with surprise. “That’s the point of history. Learn from your mistakes by looking back on them.”

Bucky smiled tightly and gave up on his internal battle over the wine, drinking approximately half the glass in one go. Predictably, Alexander frowned.

“James, the point of wine with dinner is not intoxication,” he admonished.

Bucky responded by finishing the glass.

The conversation went downhill from there.

 

***

 

“When did it change to five thirty?” Bucky asked Anna on the way out of the dining room. “It’s been six o’clock sharp since I can remember.”

Anna gave him a strange look, shot at him out of the corner of her eye, before she began to climb the stairs ahead of him. Bucky thought she wasn’t going to answer him, and reminded himself that it was wiser to keep thoughts to yourself here.

“Two weeks ago,” Anna said. She paused on the landing, turning to face him. “He changed the time two weeks ago. I didn’t realize until you were late why he’d done it.”

“And that was?”

Anna smiled wistfully, and Bucky thought it might be the most genuine expression he’d seen on her since he’d arrived.

“To fuck with you,” Anna stated.

Bucky synesthetically felt the vibration of the harsh syllable through where his hand was resting lightly on the bannister. He’d heard that word fall out of Steve’s mouth a thousand times over the last semester, and he’d probably said it as often. It, and worse, were thrown around the medical school with the casual verbal indifference of people who have both nothing and everything to lose. Yet he had only heard it once in this house, falling from his mother’s lips when she didn’t think Bucky was nearby. He’d kept that syllable like a festering secret, and it was irrational to feel as though this repeated use of it split that old wound open to the air, but he still felt that moment from his childhood return in sharp relief.

“To…” Bucky stammered. “With me?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t...I didn’t know.”

Recovering from his initial shock, he felt the meaning of Anna’s first statement sink in, and he considered it with pursed lips. “Figures,” he added, and pushed past her to continue his ascent to what had once been his room.

 

***

 

The party loomed. There wasn’t another word for the sick descent that came with these particular festivities. He suddenly remembered that the worst part of holidays had been the sudden lack of an excuse for retreat. The number of times he’d used, “I have to study” as a high school student far outweighed the number of times he’d actually gone off to study. Holidays and summer seasons, however, had left him bereft of such ready explanations.

Bucky did attempt to spend a significant amount of time in his room anyway, but kept getting called down regardless. Was there anyone in particular he wanted to see tonight? Would he stand still for a moment to see how his skin tone worked with that color scheme? Would he try this suit on to make sure it still fit? Oh my. Would he spend a few hours a day down in the gym with one of the personal trainers while he was here, considering how lax he’d obviously gotten with his own body?

Even though it was rarely Alexander he verbally encountered, there was always an shadow of him around. The whispered suggestion that Bucky - James - be brought into the conversation and to heel.

_All the better to eat you with, my dear._

He didn’t mind the gym directive much at all. Spending two weeks putting back on some muscles mass would be a positive development he could use to show Steve how much better he was feeling, and how little of a lasting effect being home with his family had left him.

_Yet somehow you can only manage to drag your lazy ass down here when someone else is forcing you. When there’s someone to please._

Which was a joke. There was no pleasing his father.

“James, come here for a moment,” Alexander said, beckoning with one hand. He paid the serving staff more attention than that when he wanted something from them.

“Sir?” Bucky said, trying to keep the weariness out of his voice.

“Just wanted to confirm the time of the party tonight,” Alexander smiled at him. “It’s one thing to disrespect your family, but it’s another to disrespect a housefull of guests.”

“I wasn’t being disrespectful,” Bucky attempted.

“Nevertheless, I don’t recommend attempting it tonight. I understand that medical school fosters independence by necessity, but that’s not a reason to abandon familial obligations. Or worse, to use a situation like this to attempt an ill-advised…”

Alexander hesitated, searching for the word, but Bucky interrupted smoothly.

“Coup?” he asked. “You think I’ll act out in front of your friends?” Which was just so _monumentally stupid, that was something that Steve would have said, it had no place here._ Alexander jerked his head sharply to look at Bucky, and Bucky - who was already opening his mouth to apologize - realized that his statement hadn’t been disrespectful, it had been a threat.

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek and tried to keep his face impassive. He was suddenly in deep waters that he had never learned to navigate, and he suspected it would be unusually difficult to climb back out onto the safety of the dock.

Whatever Alexander’s reply would have been, it was cut off by a soft laugh from Anna, who stepped in and kissed Bucky’s cheek in affection.

“Oh please, father,” she smiled. “Since when has James caused any trouble? He knows how to behave better than I do, and I think that I do pretty well. Now, come on. Mom was looking for you.”

She tugged Bucky’s sleeve, pulling him away from the situation. Bucky couldn’t figure out if it was kindness, ignorance, or vicious cruelty. It didn’t matter, though, because a few steps and the situation was out of his control again. That had potentially been the first conversation he’d been in control of since walking through the doors, and it slipped through his fingers as quickly as it had come.

“What does mom want?” he asked Anna.

“Nothing,” she said sharply. Irrational fear at her anger dripped through Bucky.

Anna was tiny. Whisper thin. He could push past her in a heartbeat, should the inclination hit him. Or the need.

“I thought you’d want out of the conversation. I've been watching him jerk you around all day, and I couldn’t just watch anymore.”

Bucky pushed at the flare of irritation, but it refused to give way. Picking up so many bad habits from Steve Rogers. His lips twisted in anger of his own, and he ran his tongue over the insides of his teeth.

“You _should_ just watch,” Bucky snapped. “This is nothing. You know this is nothing. This is petty bullshit while he’s focused on other things.”

“For now,” Anna said slowly.

“You think I’m stupid enough to do something that would actually bring his full attention to me?”

Anna shifted uncomfortably. “No,” she admitted. “But I might.”

“You?”

The irritation was gone again. Flared up and died out. Fire made entirely from accelerant. Bright and then gone. He was tired again, and this conversation was costing more energy than he had to spend. He wanted to go back to his room.

“Yes, me,” Anna snapped. She seemed to be fostering some irritation of her own, but it had a firmer foundation. Bucky’s eyes took in the set of her shoulders. The tension, thin filaments of strain, stretching from one side of her body to the other.

“Why are you telling me? What if I just go tell Alexander that you’re going to throw a fit at the party.”

“I’m not going to throw a fit at the party. That’s not what’s going to happen.”

“Fine. What if I go and tell Alexander that you’re going to ‘do something’ at the party. Get his eyes on you and keep them there.” He hated himself for how easily the words slotted into place. “That way he’s not looking at me. He wouldn’t look at me all night. I’d have a free pass, and you’d walk on eggshells and glass until your feet bled.”

“You’ve changed,” Anna said tersely.

“So have you.”

“You have no idea. So. Are you going to tell him?”

“Of course not.” _Even if I wanted to, I don’t have the energy to pull it off right._

“Then take my advice and keep your head down for this fucking party. Don’t let him be holding a single card against you after it’s over, because he’ll be gunning for someone. Don’t let it be you.”

_If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else._

He felt the inevitability of a growing storm twist tension into his body despite his degree of separation from it.

“Can I go up to my room now?”

“Do you have someone to run back to?” Anna asked, and the change in subject was so Steve-like that Bucky almost gave out his name in answer to the question. He caught himself at the last minute and stilled.

“I mean once the semester starts again,” Anna clarified, mistaking his silence for misunderstanding. “Someone safe. Someone you trust. I don’t mean someone you’re dating, necessarily. Just...someone. A friend out there who is safety.”

“Yes,” Bucky said.

“Good,” Anna said firmly. And she meant it. Bucky could tell by the way some of the thin filaments of her tension broke and dropped away.

“I am dating him, though,” Bucky admitted. “My...the safe friend. We’re dating.”

“Does father know?”

“Alexander knows I’m gay. And hey, at least he never gave me shit for that, right?”

Anna’s face contorted in violent anger, ugly and unmistakable, and Bucky drew back, heartrate jackrabbiting.

“What?” he gaped.

“He _did_ give you shit for it. James...Bucky, he ripped you apart with it. Shredded you. Put needles under your skin and flayed you with it. You were just too deep down to see it.”

“No,” Bucky protested. “It...it wasn’t like that.”

“But I saw,” Anna whispered. “I fucking saw.”

 

_Waiting for the valet to pull their car around at the club._

_“What about him? Would you get on your knees for him?”_

_“What? Who are you talking...that guy? Way over across the parking lot? I don’t even know him? Of course not.”_

_“What would he have to do in order to get you to?”_

_“Nothing. Wha--nothing!”_

_“You’d do it for nothing? I thought you just said you didn’t want to.”_

_“No. I...no. I mean…”_

_The car pulled around._

_“Speak out, James. I can’t understand you when you mutter to yourself.”_

_“I meant that he couldn’t get me to.”_

_No response. Alexander had already slid into the driver’s side, and James couldn’t even be sure he’d been heard._

 

“It wasn’t that bad,” Bucky repeated, staring Anna in the eyes. “You were young.” _The key to selling a lie is believing it._ “It wasn’t as bad as you think.”

“It was exactly as bad as I think,” Anna said softly, but she drew back, and didn’t make Bucky provide another counter-argument. “Here’s mine,” she said, pulling her phone out of her pocket. She flipped through a few screens, and eventually turned it to show Bucky a picture. It was of two men, one wearing a police uniform and the other a clearly expensive suit. It was high quality, even through the phone screen, but that wouldn’t mean much in the end, because neither the man wearing it nor the man standing next to him was white.

“Which is yours?” Bucky asked, trying to decide whether Alexander would take “rich Hispanic” or “Black cop” better. He couldn’t even begin to guess.

_Steve would be mad at you for thinking like that. He’d call you out on your racist privilege without you even having to say anything. He’d see it in your face._

_Well, Steve doesn’t know what it’s like to live here._

“Yes,” Anna said, and Bucky’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. Yes, what? He’d asked which one of the men in the picture was her…

_Yes._

“Both?” he gaped.

“Yes,” Anna said again, tension back in her body.

Bucky felt the first warmth in his body since the moment he’d walked into his apartment a month ago to find Steve in tears on the couch. It bubbled in him. It burst.

“Good for you,” he whispered fiercely. “Good. I’m so-- _good for you_. Get away from here. Get away from this. Take them and run. Go be whatever the fuck you want to be.” Hot tears of pride brimmed in his eyes.

_Frayed around the edges, my ass. She’s getting out of here._

“You need money?” he asked. Breathless. “I assume you’re leaving tonight, right? In the middle of the party. That’s what you’re trying to tell me, right?”

“Shut up,” Anna hissed, glancing up and down the hall even though it had housed no one but them since their retreat to it. “And no, I don’t need money. I’ve been preparing for this for months. Almost a year. I’ve minced and sidestepped and lied and manipulated so shut the fuck up before someone hears you.”

“Are you going to steal from him?” Bucky grinned.

“I’m eighteen,” Anna said coldly. “It’s technically my money.”

“He’s going to be so pissed,” Bucky breathed. Then his grin faded as he felt the implication of the words. Remembered Anna’s warning to be flawless tonight. Anna could see him realizing, calculating, and the grim set returned to her mouth.

“If you want my advice,” she said. “Buy yourself a plane ticket tonight. Use cash, so he doesn't flag it on your card. Go back home to your boyfriend where it’s safe.”

“I can’t,” Bucky said. “I just...I can’t.”

“I know,” Anna said gently. “I know. But at least listen to my other advice. Behave tonight. Be flawless. And do _not_ tell him you’re dating someone.”

“He…” Bucky started, and then came to an abrupt halt. He’d assumed Alexander knew about Steve, even if he didn’t know his name, but why would he? There was no social crossover. Bucky hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t had a conversation that wasn’t about his own shortcomings since he got here.

“Okay,” he agreed. “I can do that. I’ll keep my head down.”

“Good luck,” Anna said, and then walked away. Bucky turned and wandered back toward the staircase, beginning the climb, deep in thought and silence.

“James,” Alexander called, arresting him. Bucky turned back. “What did your mother want?”

“She wanted me to go get changed for the party,” Bucky said. “Said she was worried I was going to be late tonight. I figured she’s got a good point after last night.”

“Oh,” Alexander said. _Yeah, you can’t insult me when I do it first, can you?_ “Well then you’d better go.”

It was a trivial exchange, but Bucky couldn’t help but feel like he’d won it. He turned and finished his climb up the stairs and continued on into his bedroom. He really would have to change soon anyway, so he might as well hold the lie in place. Anna needed Alexander unsuspicious.

Anna also needed Alexander’s eyes off her. Needed them elsewhere. Bucky turned the thought over in his mind as he stood and stared at the suit hanging ready for him.

He pulled out his phone and texted Steve.

 

_If I wanted to do something a little stupid in order to help someone else, what would you say?_

 

He waited for a response. Opened and closed a few apps. Thought about it, and added another message.

 

_Not “in trouble with the law” stupid. “Piss off my family” stupid._

 

More waiting. More apps. He took the time to go ahead and change like he was supposedly up here to do. He wasted away nearly a half hour waiting for a response, but he didn’t end up getting one.

Steve was probably busy. Steve probably had his headphones way up and was elbow deep in some project. Steve was probably out with friends and didn’t need to be looking at his phone. Steve probably wasn’t missing him yet; it had only been a couple of days.

Eventually he had to put his phone on the desk and go downstairs. Phones were not allowed at dinner parties.

 

***

 

The entire front room was gorgeous. Bucky forced himself to look around at it slowly, rather than letting his eyes seek out Anna. The room looked warm by visual aspects alone. Dark reds and forest greens draped over and around furniture, walls, and columns. The lighting was reminiscent of a crackling fireplace, regardless of the complete lack of any such thing. The smells of dinner mingled with the smells of spices and evergreen. White Christmas lights appeared as accents, guiding the guests forward to where they could mingle.

Bucky smiled in greeting as he sauntered across the room to where Alexander was greeting one of the guests personally, utilizing the slight break in the conversation caused by Bucky's arrival.

“James Barnes,” he introduced himself. Bucky was going to manage this, one way or another. He’d always been a good liar. Remodulate his gaze, his voice tone, his vocabulary. He was reminded of the phone call to the hospital, paying Steve’s bill. He would never have been able to manage it, had it been for himself.

“David,” Alexander added, after a slight pause. “My son.”

“Stepson,” Bucky amended, still smiling pleasantly.

Bucky watched Alexander’s reaction to that without actually turning to look. The man in question shook Bucky’s hand and formally introduced himself as David Miller. Bucky kept nodding and smiling. David nodded and smiled back. Alexander didn’t move at all, even when David and Bucky began a superficial and pleasant enough conversation. David asked what Bucky was doing with his life. Bucky said “I’m currently in my second year of medical school” instead of “I’m driving myself into the ground in the vain hope that one day I’ll actually have the courage to kill myself.” Bucky asked what David did for a living, and David said something about international banking that made Bucky smile and nod again.

“Well, I should go and find my wife,” David said eventually.

“Oh, well I should let you go then, Daniel,” Bucky said, and watched David blink once. Watched him physically deciding whether or not to take offence.

“David,” he said stiffly. “David Miller.”

“Right!” Bucky exclaimed, hand over his chest in apology. “I’m so sorry, David. My mistake.”

“Got that out of your system?” Alexander sneered, once David had wandered away to find his wife.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky said. Still smiling. Still pleasant. Still on the verge of nodding, even though there wasn’t anything to agree with. “I’m being sociable. I’m being polite. And most importantly--” He turned and looked Alexander right in the eye. “I was on time. Besides, I even made Daniel laugh, at some point in there.”

“David,” Alexander spat.

“Are you sure?” Bucky asked, tilting his head. Then he shrugged, and moved away quickly, snagging a glass of champagne as he went.

White cold adrenaline was sliding all around his body. His hands were shaking, and it wasn’t fear. Well, he amended to himself, maybe some fear. But for the first time in a long time, he’d made a decision that he was determined not to regret, and he was heady and exhilarating. There was no ground beneath his feet.

He saw Anna accross the room, making small talk with a group of women, and he resisted the urge to raise his glass to her. Instead, their eyes met briefly, and then slithered away from each other.

Bucky introduced himself to a man he recognized from previous Christmas parties. A Wilson, he if recalled correctly.

“James Barnes,” he said. Pleasantly.

“Austin Wilson,” the man said, smiling back.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Bucky said. “I haven’t seen you at our family’s Christmas party before. Recent change in your life situation?”

“No,” Austin said slowly. “I’ve been here every year since you were a child.”

_I was never a child._

“Oh!” Bucky exclaimed, hand over his chest in apology. “I’m so sorry, Austin. My mistake.”

Bucky continued through the party that way. Slight insults and disingenuous compliments that kept bringing Alexander back to him, kept him trailing behind and trying to do damage control when Bucky pushed hard enough for it to be needed. Bucky just kept smiling pleasantly and refused to look at Alexander, knowing that seeing the anger building there would likely crush the euphoric recklessness consuming him. There was no ground beneath his feet.

“Robert Bell,” the man said, then inclined his head. “You’re the son in medical school, right?”

“Stepson,” Bucky said, vibrantly. “And yes. Guilty as charged.”

“Then I’m proud to say that you’re currently attending my alma mater.”

“Ah!” Bucky grinned. “So you’re ‘Dr. Bell’ then?”

“Oh please, call me Robert,” the man laughed. “Heaven knows you’ve earned the right, giving what you’re currently suffering through. What year are you in?”

“Second year,” Bucky answered, pleased to see that his own visible excitement had drawn Alexander’s attention. Only a few hours into the night, and Bucky was already a master of the line between being rude enough to have his stepfather’s constant attention and being rude enough to get kicked upstairs.

He hadn’t seen Anna at all in nearly an hour.

“Robert,” Alexander greeted. “I hope my son is behaving.” It was becoming his standard self-introduction for the night.

“Of course he is,” Robert exclaimed. “He’s a medical student, isn’t he? He knows how to behave. Academic expectations are only one of the standards to which we’re held, isn’t that right, James?”

“That’s certainly correct,” Bucky agreed. “Fortunately, there are also plenty of opportunities to unwind.”

“True, no one unwinds like medical students. I’m both delighted and ashamed to admit that I got into my fair share of trouble during my years as a student. I haven’t thought about medical school parties in years. You’re making me nostalgic.”

Bucky laughed along easily before adding, “And what was your poison?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m partial to alcohol, but that does have it drawbacks. After all, something that’s legal will never have quite the psychological edge that another substance will.”

Bucky watched the face in front of him draw in confusion, obviously trying to figure out if Bucky was actually saying what he was saying.

“So what was yours?” Bucky pressed. “I know a guy who’s in third year who can get opioids, every now and then. I think he’s got some system worked out with one of the nurses.”

Not exactly true. Bucky didn’t know the guy personally. Just knew that he existed.

“James,” Alexander said sharply and, for the first time in the night, laid a heavy hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Or were you a dextroamphetamine person?” Bucky plunged ahead. Anna had been gone for some time, and he was drunk with champagne and recklessness. “Did they have Adderall yet, all the way back when you were in medical school? Or maybe just plain amphetamines then?”

“That’s enough!” Sharp. Final. The hand on Bucky’s shoulder pinched sharply at the cluster of nerves that shot pain up his face and down across his shoulder. He was dragged physically away from the conversation and across the room into the hallway. He considered dragging his feet, forcing everyone to realize that Alexander was ejecting his own son - _stepson_ \- from the party, but the alcohol was making him tired, and it didn’t matter anymore now anyway.

He was marched away and, just before being shoved up the stairs, he caught sight of a pair of red strappy heels, placed purposefully at the front door. Heels that had made her look so young, that were mocking now. Taunting. Left behind.

Bucky thought for a moment of amusement, that he was about to be locked in his room, but he was instead shoved into one of the empty guest bedrooms. Not even allowed his own space.

"What was your poison, father?" he asked. His final shot.

“I’ll deal with you later,” was the vague threat, but Bucky was past caring. He laid down on the bed and went to sleep.

 

***

 

He cared a few hours later. He cared when Alexander burst through the door hard enough that it hit the wall, folding back on itself.

“Where is she?” he demanded. Loud. Angry. Out of control. Bucky had never seen him like that in his entire life, and he burst out laughing instead of answering.

Alexander closed the door as forcefully as he’d opened it.

 

***

 

It was a long time before it opened again. Now, Alexander was calm. Poised. Expressionless. Now, Bucky was afraid. He sat up on the bed, swinging around to put his feet on the floor.

“You think you’re clever,” Alexander said. “And I’m not sure why. Heaven knows that growing up in this household showed you often enough where your shortcomings were, yet you still left an arrogant child. I’ll admit part of the fault to be my own. I assumed that medical school would do something to curb that pride of yours. Yet, even after admitted failure after admitted failure, you continue to hold yourself not only above those around you, but above the consequences for your own actions. So please. Explain to me how that happened.”

A long silence.

“It’s not a rhetorical question, James.” And Bucky had never heard his own name sound more like a curse word in someone’s mouth.

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to ask me,” Bucky said slowly. “I’m not trying to be arrogant.”

“Yet it’s an integral part of you.”

“It’s not.”

“Right there. Right _there_. I’m trying to tell you something about yourself, trying to show you where you’re hurting those around you, and you’re dismissing me out of hand before we’ve even turned it into a discussion. You’re so sure you understand yourself that you're not willing to listen to anyone other than yourself.”

Silence again. Bucky doubted there was a series of words in the entire language that could make this situation better. He wanted to know if Anna had gotten away clean, but he knew better than to ask. Besides, he suspected he’d have already been told if she hadn’t.

“Still nothing to say? Still going to sit there like the little ice princess you are? Cold against any accusation. What am I supposed to do with you, James? Can you at least answer me that?”

“I don’t think anything needs to be done with me,” Bucky answered. The words felt thick and tacky in his throat.

Alexander took a sudden step forward and flung the desk chair onto the floor. It hit heavily, with a cracking noise, and bounced and skittered a good foot before slowing to a stop. Bucky jumped at the movement from stillness, at the noise from silence, and pulled his feet up onto the bed with him.

“Do you really think you did nothing wrong last night?” Alexander shouted. Bucky’s ears rung and he kept his eyes on the floor. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me that you didn’t act like a child tonight?”

“Sorry,” Bucky said.

“Dr. Bell, who you so spectacularly unsettled last night, spends most of his free time volunteering as a psychologist with an organization that deals with sexual trafficking. He spends countless hours, at great emotional expense, teaching men and women to be human again after they’ve had any such dignity stripped from them. Please, justify to me your reasoning. What did Dr. Bell do to earn your pathetic adolescence?”

“I didn’t...I’m sorry. I am.”

“Strangely enough, James. I don’t believe you. How am I possibly supposed to believe you?”

“I”m not a liar,” Bucky protested. “That’s not…” _On my list of personal shortcomings that I recite to myself when I can’t breath._ “I’m not a liar.”

“You’re not a liar,” Alexander scoffed, incredulous. “Yes, you are. Lying about your intentions for the party tonight, and how you’re doing in school, and why you can’t come home for the entirety of Christmas break. I had to explain to your mother how you were avoiding her.”

“I wasn’t avoiding her,” Bucky tried. “I was--” But Alexander just kept talking.

“Just because I believed you when you were younger, when you hadn’t broken my trust, doesn’t mean that I will now.”

Bucky tried to remember whether or not he’d lied about the things that Alexander had been listing. Those were things that had made him uncomfortable to discuss with his father, so it was possible there had been some lies in those conversations. He couldn’t remember any, but then he also couldn’t properly remember what he _had_ said.

“You just say whatever you want to say, in order to defend yourself," Alexander continued.

Steve had called him a liar. Steve had said he was a liar on more than one occasion.

“Whatever you want to say, in order to feel good. To make other people do as you want. To make them shut up when you want silence, and to talk to you when you feel alone. Constantly manipulating the situation around you so that you get what you want. And maybe it’s hard to blame you for that, seeing as it’s the only way you’ll ever get anyone besides your family to give a damn about you. Or, to act like it anyway. Synthetic emotion from synthetic situations.”

_You do that to Steve all the time. You do it at school, too. When you talk to teachers, or Jane, or Brock. Clint, too. Clint even still thinks you’re his friend. At least Natasha saw through you._

“Not thinking about how the people around you are going to respond or be hurt, in kind. No, it doesn’t matter if someone else is suffering, as long as _you’re_ not the one the pain is lacing through. Anyone else. Close to you or not. Family or not. You just hurt and break and lie.”

“Stop,” Bucky mumbled. “I’m sorry. I said I’m sorry, and I am. I’m really sorry.”

“Apologies don’t get you anywhere. A couple of syllables dripping from your sniveling lips do not right wrongs.”

“What do you want me to do? Just...what do you want?”

“It’s not about what I want, James. Although, I have to admit I’m tempted to put you over the bed and whip you for your intractable hatefulness. There’s something I’ve never tried before. Maybe it’s the piece that was always missing from your rhetoric. Maybe that’s where I went wrong.”

Dread dripping through him, Bucky tucked his feet in tighter against himself. Alexander had never hit him before. Other than a slap or two across the face, and that didn’t really count when it didn’t even bruise. He was twenty-five, for god’s sake.

He could imagine the humiliation, though. Bending over the bed, placing his hands on the bedspread he was right now clutching in his sweating fists. He suspected that, should Alexander follow through, he would exert the effort to make it a memorable experience.

“I suppose it’s too late, though,” Alexander sighed.

The worst part was that Bucky knew he would do it. He would cry, and protest, and hate it, but he would do as he was told. He would take it, if it came to it. He knew it. Alexander knew it. And that was probably why it wasn’t going to actually happen. It didn’t need to happen. Just by forcing the issue into possibility, Bucky had already experienced its effects. All he was missing was the bruised ass.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“And now you’re crying. More manipulation tactics.  One after the other. I can’t do this, James. I’m just so tired. I’m run to exhaustion by this company, and then by your mother and sister, and I thought maybe I could at least cut you off that list. That you’d finally turned into an adult who didn’t need to come running back to his father to fix his problems.”

Had he done that? Probably. He did it to Steve, often enough.

“Just go,” Alexander said. He even looked tired, rubbing his eyes and letting his shoulders drop.

“Go?” Bucky asked, afraid. Like, ‘go’ leave the house. Get out? Was he being kicked out. “I’m sorry!” he said again, more loudly. More insistent. More tearful _manipulative whiny child._

“Just go up to your room. If you want to act like a disobedient child, you’re free to sit in your room like one.”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky said, trying to take deep breaths. He walked past Alexander, who was still rubbing his face wearily, and wondered if someone smarter would be able to come up with the right thing to say. Wisely - considering it was him - he refrained from attempting, and shuffled down the hall to his room.

There was a Christmas present sitting on his desk, next to his phone, blinking with notifications. He went for the phone first - _2%, battery critical_ \- and saw a single message from Steve. He had to look up at whatever he’d sent over a day ago in order to understand.

 

_If I wanted to do something a little stupid in order to help someone else, what would you say?_

 

_Not “in trouble with the law” stupid. “Piss off my family” stupid._

 

And then Steve’s.

 

_Go for it. Fuck them up._

 

Bucky put the phone back on the desk to die and switched his attention to the wrapped gift sitting on the table. Bright green paper. Lovingly wrapped by hand. Scotch tape barely visible, holding it together. Anna flashed through his mind, but when he twisted the tag to read it, it said,

To: James

From: your father

Bucky unwrapped it with numb hands and lips. The sides of his tongue burned and tasted bitter

It was a ceramic mug, heavy with quality, hand-painted to read: Med School - The Weak are Killed and Eaten.

Bucky sank down on the floor and laughed so violently it was more like sobbing.

 

***

 

“How long has it been since you heard from him. Exactly.”

“To the hour?” Steve drawled sarcastically.

“To the day is fine,” Sharon clipped.

“Eleven days. The last time he sent me anything was on Christmas Eve. He asked me whether or not he should piss off his family.”

“And you,” Sharon said, grimacing, “weighed the pros and cons of that request, considered the fact that he’s dropped multiple hints of being from an abusive family, and wisely told him to be careful.”

“More along the lines that I told him to, quote, fuck them up.”

“Steven Rogers,” Sharon sighed. “Not everyone is you. We cannot all fight every battle we come across. What if he was trying to ask you if it was okay to not? What if he was trying to get your approval to back down from that particular fight?”

“That wasn’t what it sounded like,” Steve pouted. “I know I don’t understand everything about how he thinks, but I’d recognize that.”

“You’ve called him?”

“It goes straight to voicemail.”

Sharon considered, pursing her lips, and then nodded once.

“If he doesn’t come back in time for school to start, call Natasha.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long, as I certainly had no intention of it doing any such thing. For some reason, this one really kicked my ass, and I couldn't seem to wrestle it into submission. Hopefully, the next one will be a much shorter wait.

 

 

 

Steve had splurged and turned the heat up in the apartment. His mother’s estate had finally settled, handing over the life insurance payout and generally making his life easier, even though that thought occasionally made him blanche with guilt. Still, it was leaving him plenty of time to lie around, waiting for the semester to start. Waiting for Bucky to make contact one way or another. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. So yeah, fuck it, he’d turned the heat way up so he could lie on the floor in nothing but his boxers and a paint-covered thread-bare tank top. This month’s electricity bill could go fuck itself.

A key turned in the door - uselessly, he still always forgot to lock the damn thing - and Steve sat straight up, unsure whether he was about to witness proof that Natasha had made copies of the apartment keys or if Bucky was about to walk back into his home. He fought the urge to scramble to his feet, choosing instead to lean back on his hands, legs folded in front of him.

Bucky pushed through the door. Literally pushed through it, like it was too heavy for him to do anything but lean his body weight against it and fall. He was skinnier. He’d been getting skinnier through the last semester, but not alarmingly so. More like “I’m really busy so the gym can go to hell” skinny. This was something else. Steve scrambled to his feet after all, just as Bucky came to a stop inside the door, letting it swing shut with a heavy bang.

“Tell me if I’m mad at you or terrified,” Steve snapped.

“What?” Bucky asked, blinking slowly. “I don’t--”

“I haven’t heard from you since fucking Christmas Eve, so tell me if I’m mad at you for that bullshit or if you had a reason. This is your one shot to justify the absolute mindless terror that has been growing in me over the last weeks.”

“He took my phone,” Bucky said wearily.

“Come again?” Steve snapped.

“My father took my phone. I--I was a brat, so he took it.”

Steve was brought up speechless. He was used to flying into rage at the slightest provocation or injustice, but this undid him. He opened his mouth, hoping that something would piece itself together in time to be heard, but he just gaped.

“Sorry,” Bucky said, discomfort visible and worsening.

“Don’t apologize for that...that... _abuse_ ,” Steve managed. The words felt like they were choking him, but they got easier the more he pushed them out. “That’s not something you...I’m not mad at you! That is one hell of a good reason, Bucky, and I will personally fly out to your parents’ house and beat the everloving shit out of the man that claims to be your father.” He looked around for his shoes, feeling the urge to leave immediately and make good on his promise, practicality be damned.

“It’s fine,” Bucky said.

“It is _not_ fine!” Steve snapped back, missing the way Bucky flinched in response. “That kind of thing is not okay. He doesn’t get to control you like that. You’re a human being. A person. _My_ person. And he can’t just...he _can’t_.”

Steve finally came to a stop, having found and slipped on his shoes, the backs of them folded down in his haste to shove them onto his feet, but he was prevented from actually marching out into the cold by Bucky’s presence in front of the door.

“Steve,” Bucky said.

“What!?”

“Can we just...not?”

Steve took a moment to process the request, still measuring the miles of road that he was mentally overcoming. In the end, it wasn’t the words themselves that finally penetrated, but rather Bucky’s posture. Hunching shoulders, leaning back on the door, and refusing to make eye contact. He hadn’t refused to make eye contact with Steve for months. Not since way back at the beginning of the first semester in August. Steve’s priorities shifted. Like a room, pivoting on the axis of a single corner, he rearranged his sightlines until he was focused on comforting Bucky, rather than avenging him.

“Oh god,” he breathed. “I’m sorry.” The apology made Bucky jerk sharply, but Steve pushed past it the way he’d pushed back the anger clogging his own throat. “Sam was always telling me that my temper blinded me sometimes, and you already know I’m stubborn as hell. Yeah, Buck. We don’t have to do anything. We don’t have to do shit. Let’s just sit.”

“Sorry,” Bucky murmured. But he didn’t seem to have realized he’d said it, so Steve just let it go, guiding him toward the couch where Bucky collapsed in on himself, curling into a ball hanging over the armrest. Steve settled himself on the next cushion, waited a moment, and then snuggled in against Bucky. He wrapped his arms around Bucky’s chest, tucking his own head under Bucky’s chin.

Bucky didn’t move for a moment, but then took a ragged breath, rested his face against the top of Steve’s head, and inhaled again deeply. His fingers spasmed, then buried themselves to clench tightly in Steve’s shirt.

“Still gonna beat the shit out of him, if I get the chance,” Steve muttered into Bucky’s shirt.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t know what hit him,” Bucky responded, and there was a little bit more of the late-first-semester Bucky. The I-got-the-coffee-started-for-you-even-though-I-hate-it, Bucky.

“You know it’s whatever you want, right?” Bucky asked.

“Hm?” Steve responded, weighing whether or not Bucky would let Steve suck him off as a hello. Bucky was always a pain in the ass to talk into a blowjob because it had a habit of triggering an asthma attack or at least a coughing fit. (Steve acknowledged to himself that this was a reasonable concern for Bucky to have, but he would never give in and admit it out loud.)

“I said that you can have whatever you want,” Bucky said again. “Whatever you need me to do. Hell, whatever you need me to say. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you, and it won’t even be a hardship.”

Steve tensed, already disliking the tone of the speech, but Bucky either ignored him or didn’t notice.

“Whatever rules you want in this relationship, just tell me. That’s the only thing I’m asking for, Steve. Please tell me. Don’t make me guess and fuck up. Just tell me what you want, and then I’ll do it. There’s nothing I won’t let you have. Nothing that you aren’t worth to me.”

“I don’t want anything,” Steve rushed to say. “Bucky, please, I don’t want anything.”

“That’s such a lie,” Bucky said sadly. “You want more from me than anyone in the world ever has.”

“I--”

“You want me to be happy and honest and assertive and all this has to be a part of me all the time, and that’s fine, Steve. That’s fine. I’m not complaining, I swear to god. I’m just warning you that, even though I’m trying, you might have to correct me sometimes. All I’m asking is that you point it out to me when I fuck up.”

Steve buried his face in Bucky’s stomach and tried not to cry. He wasn’t even angry anymore, just tired. He couldn’t help but think of this as such a large step backwards, even though he knew that was unfair. That this wasn’t a progress report or a loading bar, taking Bucky from “unstable” to “stable.” Steve didn’t have a right to be angry about this.

“Is that okay, Steve?” Bucky asked, and even though he could wrap his arms all the way around Steve, Steve felt like he was the larger one. And he was angry anyway.

 

***

 

Bucky was familiar with the concept of classical conditioning. Pavlov’s dog, salivating at the sound of a bell, was the more commonly known anecdote, but it was the Little Albert experiment that had always stuck out to Bucky. John Watson - who was, in Bucky’s opinion, a grade A douchebag - had altered the neutral stimulus of a small white rat. He had experimented on an unknown infant, dubbed “Albert” in his research, by exposing the child to the neutral stimulus and then introducing an unconditioned stimulus. Which was fancy psychology speak for saying that every time the child had seen the furry white creatures, John Watson had made a frightening loud noise behind the child’s head without warning.

Grade A douchebag.

The unconditioned stimulus - the loud noise - had led to an unconditioned response - fear and crying. And Watson kept it up. Every time the child saw these animals, the unconditioned stimulus was introduced. Over and over again.

Eventually - inevitably - the neutral stimulus of the animals began to elicit the unconditioned response. The small animals, of which the child had not previously been afraid, became panic inducing, even after Watson stopped applying the loud sounds upon their appearance. Watson had, in effect, taught the child to be afraid.

Neutral stimulus. Small white rats. The layout of the medical school’s online schedule. Thin lines and utilitarian boxes. _Required Activity._ _Independent Study. White Coats Required For Patient Panel._

Unconditioned stimulus. Loud noise. Sitting for fourteen hours at the same desk without moving. The cloying smell of formaldehyde. The derision on classmates’ faces when someone around them didn’t measure up.

Unconditioned response. Startled fear. Paranoia-induced self-inflicted silence. Compulsive consumption of caffeine. Overlayering his clothes in swathes of simulated comfort. Wave after wave of unabatable rolling nausea that came and went without warning.

Which is all to say, when Bucky pulled up the school’s website to look at the first week’s schedule, he immediately leaned over the edge of the bed and involuntarily vomited into the trashcan. He spit bile and mucus and the remains of his dignity into the enclave of the opaque plastic sheath. Unconditioned response.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he was Little Albert or Pavlov’s dog, but either way, he was pretty sure he’d been fucked over.

 

***

 

He hadn’t expected Steve to remember their Christmas. He should have known from the fact that the stupid plastic tree was still in the living room. That the orange extension cord still snaked its way over the carpet, even though Steve must have tripped over it a hundred times in Bucky’s absence.

Bucky had arrived back to Steve’s apartment late Saturday night, and he was awakened at noon on Sunday by Steve bouncing on his bed. (Bucky had begged off bed sharing the night before. Claimed exhaustion. Didn’t even have to lie to do it.)

“I ran out of patience,” Steve announced. He was holding a package wrapped in bright green wrapping paper. Bucky thought he might throw up again.

“Oh,” he said, and he knew that was not the proper response to being given a gift, but he had just been suddenly awakened and didn’t have the energy to dig around in his mind for the proper one.

“Open it,” Steve urged, grinning wildly and shoving the present into Bucky’s hands before he’d even had the chance to sit up.

“Why am I suddenly terrified?” Bucky sighed, juggling gravity and green wrapping paper. That response seemed better. More like his usual self. It helped him focus on the rough paper beneath his fingers. He was loathe to rip it, peeling at the taped edges instead, as though opening a beautiful and delicate envelope.

“It’s just paper,” Steve scoffed, but he grinned wider and ducked his head as though to shove it forward against Bucky’s shoulder, stopping just short.

Bucky continued with his delicate unpeeling, stopping every now and then to readjust his grip on the box, shifting it around so as to better get at all the angles. Eventually, however, he was able to slid the thin box out of its trappings. The box itself was cheap, already peeling from having been opened the couple of times needed to encase the gift, and Bucky lifted the lid off gingerly.

It was a book. Cloth covered in flawless black and hand-stitched with red thread, outlining the vasculature system of the body. Blood droplets as tiny stitches, marking the pathways, branching and branching and branching again.

“Is it right?” Steve asked, leaning over to look at the front of the book with Bucky. “I wasn’t sure, and I kept rechecking over and over again. I’m pretty sure I fucked something up in the neck ‘cause, shit, that stuff is complicated.”

“You made this?” Bucky asked, breathing shallowly.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not exactly my medium, but I made it work. A little online research and a few YouTube tutorials later, here we are.” He was cocking his head to the side, examining Bucky’s face. Bucky swallowed thickly and tilted the book out of the box so he could open it.

It was a lined notebook with soft paper pages that wouldn’t bleed through with ink. They weren’t quite white, but a more yellow off-white. Cream. Bucky ran his fingers up and down the paper, quickly becoming obsessed with the sound it made and the warm feeling it burned into his fingertips.

“You like it?” Steve prompted. Shy.

Bucky closed the book so he could change to running his fingers over the cover, catching in each hand-stitched anatomically correct line of red thread. Painstaking care. Hunched over the cover, trying to push each needle through exactly where he wanted it. So much planning. Bucky could see one place where light pencil marks, indicating the way, hadn’t completely faded away.

“It’s the most beautiful things anyone has ever given me,” he said thickly.

“Oh please,” Steve scoffed, but his pleasure was evident in the blush in his cheeks. “I figured you could take notes in it during class. Show off how cool your boyfriend is.”

As though Bucky would ever dare mar this art with his own scrawled handwriting.

“I didn’t get you anything nearly so perfect,” Bucky lamented out loud, looking up at Steve with anguish. He was actually considering keeping the present to himself and trying to figure out something later, but he knew that wouldn’t work. On one hand, he couldn’t bear the thought of not giving Steve at least _something_ in return and, on the other hand, he knew he’d never be able to come up with something like this. Something this perfect.

“It’s down at the foot of my bed,” Bucky said, struggling to sit up, still holding the book against his chest with one hand.

“This?” Steve exclaimed, bouncing off the bed and pointing at the Amazon box sitting there.

 _You didn’t even take it out and wrap it_.

“This came weeks ago!” Steve exclaimed excitedly. “While you were gone. I put it in here for you, and it was mine the whole time? That’s some shifty bullshit right there.” He was grinning wildly, but Bucky was having difficulty taking the excitement at such a simple ruse as anything near genuine. Still, Steve pulled the box up onto the bed quickly enough, fighting with the tape and plastic while he kneeled next to it. He won, eventually.

Bucky was watching Steve carefully while he unwrapped the final layers of bubble wrap, so he saw the sudden tension. Frozen immobility with thick tendons pushing out of the surface of the skin. The slightly hunched disbelief. Bucky bit the inside of his cheek.

“Is it not a good kind?” he asked.

“It’s a Cintiq,” Steve said softly, staring at the tablet. Then he turned his head to glance at the receipt _you didn’t even take out the receipt that’s so rude_ and blanched again, continuing, “It’s a 22HD Cintiq that cost two _thousand fucking dollars_ , what the fuck? I can’t...you can’t!”

“Sorry,” Bucky said, scrambling forward to snatch the receipt out of the box _too little too late_ and throwing it into the trash, half-crumpled.

“No, it’s...it’s not…is this like the hospital bill?”

Bucky was rarely stable enough to handle Steve’s particular brand of honesty. Sitting there in his boxers and untucked sheets, he was more vulnerable than usual.

“I don’t understand,” he said. Lie. He understood perfectly. _Are you trying to buy my love, even though it backfired last time?_ “Are you still mad at me for that? This isn’t like that.”

“I’m not mad,” Steve said, forehead crinkling as he tried to figure out what he wanted to say. He wore his emotions on his face in a way Bucky never would be able to.

_I’m not mad. I’m just disappointed._

“You made me a book,” Bucky insisted too loudly. “You must have spent hours on this, and don’t try and tell me the materials weren’t expensive. You could probably sell this online for a hundred dollars, and you just gave it to me. I want you to have a nice tablet, okay? Can you just...let me have that.”

Liar, liar, liar, liar, liar. This wasn’t about Steve. That was just the easiest stepping stone from guilty to kisses. Make everything that was uncomfortable all Steve’s fault, and he couldn’t fucking stop. He watched Steve struggle with his pride in silence.

“You don’t _have_ to give me expensive stuff,” he said grudgingly.

“I know. I didn’t get it because it was expensive. I got it because it was quality.”

Steve pursed his lips and Bucky realized, with a rush of relief, that he was about to give in.

“Fine,” Steve said.

“You’re welcome,” Bucky muttered, making Steve roll his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Thank you, Bucky. I’ll draw you something cool on it.”

“Whatever you want to do,” Bucky said. He tried to put all the weight of those words into the shallow syllables, but it was always hard to tell what Steve was missing and what Steve was pretending to miss so he could better evaluate Bucky. Either way, the stubbornness was fading off Steve’s face as he caressed the tablet on his lap, still covered in plastic.

“Go plug it in,” Bucky urged. “See if it works and everything.”

“Okay,” Steve grinned, scrambling off the bed carefully, eagerness growing now that he’d decided his conscience would allow this.

Bucky waited until he heard the sound of Steve’s door opening before he laid back down and let himself fall back asleep. He did, however, keep the fingers of one hand resting gently on the notebook lying besides him.

 

***

 

School was worse than he thought it was going to be. Every interaction was another reason to internally chant _liar liar liar_. There was another six week course standing between him and relative freedom. Freedom, because there would be less structure to the course work. Relative, because it would be time to start studying for the step exam. They taunted him with the date.

“Most students start studying for step on Feburary 14th,” they said. Then they laughed. “Shitty valentine’s day present, right?”

Like it fucking mattered what day you started or didn’t start. Everyone around Bucky was already talking about the upcoming national exam. Talking about goal numbers and percentages. Getting “daily step questions” on phone apps that interrupted their daily lives on a regular basis. “Hey! Listen!” You’re doomed to take a 6 hour exam designed to shred you mentally and emotionally.

“You launch your UWorld yet?” Clint asked, spinning around and around in his chair. He was leaning back in it nonchalantly, at odds with the discussion point and the shifting velocity of his centrifugal force.

“Yeah,” Bucky lied. “Over winter break. Terrifying stuff.”

“I didn’t know shit,” Clint laughed, still spinning. “I’m totally fucked.”

It was hard to take the comment seriously, when Clint was still shoving himself in circles with his foot. Then again, maybe Clint just had a healthier outlook on his own upcoming academic trial-by-fire. It’s not like it was doing Bucky any good to panic over it.

“How’s that step studying coming?” Brock asked the next day. They were the only two in the mod _how does this keep happening_?

“It’s going,” Bucky said blandly.

“Is it?” Brock asked, grinning. “Is it really?”

Bucky didn’t have the energy to respond. He just stared, blank faced, while Brock lounged and grinned and reveled.

 

***

 

Steve knew something was wrong. He wasn’t stupid. He just didn’t know what to do about it. How did he address something like that? How did he approach home life and shitty family when Bucky had so clearly asked not to be asked?

For the first time in his life, Steve threw something in anger. A cheap paintbrush that was too lightweight to even shatter upon impact with the wall. It didn’t help. He felt stupid and childish and part of him wondered if that was only because he hadn’t thrown something heavy enough. Large enough.

He wanted to get into a fight. Wanted to throw a punch at something physical.

Silence was the only thing Steve couldn’t handle. The wall of No Communication that he’d thought torn down months ago was back up in full strength. Reinforced. Morning kisses were forgone and texts went unanswered and every time Bucky had a thousands reasons.

_I’m just so stressed right now, sorry. I’m not ignoring you. I’m just focused. I like your texts, though. They’re sweet, and they’re a nice ten second study break._

Steve had never daydreamed about a boyfriend describing him like that.

_I love you, baby._

_I love you too, Ten Second Study Break._

Steve decided he should probably just go to bed. Bucky was clearly not coming home tonight.

 

***

 

Brock had started coming to class. It wasn’t overwhelming for the first couple of days, given how the new semester usually introduced a few people who attempted to become class-goers, swearing that this would be the semester they ended up in the first quartile. It wasn’t until the pattern started to hold that Bucky became concerned.

He’d started using the mod to escape from his apartment - and Steve - like he had at the beginning of the year. Now he was being forced to chose between two sources of distress, and his balancing game was played between which he could take better.

The answer was turning out to be Brock. Somehow Steve, with his Genuine Concern, was a thousand times worse. At least Brock didn’t give a shit about how much effort Bucky was putting into his life. The response would be the same, either way.

Wednesday morning, one and a half weeks into school, Brock sat down on his left, and Jack, one of Brock’s friends, sat down on his right. Bucky tried to make himself smaller. He tried to focus on the notes he wasn’t reading. He succeeded for a few moments, but his mind drew him back into the conversation when Jack, with a particular sneer in his voice, said, “That one looks doomed for pseudotumor cerebri.” He was gesturing at a fellow classmate, settling herself in another row.

Bucky had to fish for that one and - as soon as he figured it out - wished he’d remained ignorant. Pseudotumor cerebri, more commonly known as idiopathic intracranial hypertension, was a disease found almost exclusively in obese women in their 20s and 30s.

Bucky clenched his teeth and stared at the lecturer preparing to begin. Prayed for any sort of intervention.

 _You could intervene_.

But he didn’t. He sat there and wished he was dead. What a fucking waste.

“Hey,” Jack said, waving a twenty dollar bill in front of Bucky, effectively interrupting his self-loathing pity-party. For a moment of incredulity, Bucky though Jack was talking to him, but then Brock reached out and took the money. Bucky inadvertently pushed his seat back further from the desk.

Brock shoved the twenty in his pocket and then dug around in his backpack for a moment, before pulling out a pill, sliding it so it skittered across the table in front of Bucky into Jack’s waiting hand, cupped on the table.

_The professor is right there!_

The audacity was compelling, but it was overshadowed by the event occurring literally in front of Bucky, all without the slightest attempt to engage with him.

_Oh, I’m sorry. Am I getting in the way of your drug deal? I had no idea. Let me move down a couple fucking rows._

He stared at his hands, clenched into fists in his lap, and realized he’d recognized the pill. Adderall. If he expected some relief that they weren’t trading more illicit substances, he was disappointed. Instead, he felt a twitch of jealousy, because fuck could he use some synthetic focus.

He kept staring at his hands.

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry!” drawled a female voice, matched with a sharp movement and noise of distress on his left. Bucky glanced up quickly to see Jane, who - given the scene unfolding now - had just knocked her backpack into the back of Brock’s head.

“That hurt,” Brock whined, turning to glare at the young woman while Jack snickered on Bucky’s right.

“I bet it did,” Jane said, fake sympathy dripping in her voice. Even Bucky could tell she was lying. “Poor baby.”

“Bitch,” Brock muttered, exactly loud enough for Jane to hear.

“Bitch is a word men use when they find they’re not in control of the situation,” Jane smirked, still standing in the aisle so Brock had to crane his neck up and around to look at her. _Power play_. “So while it’s certainly appropriate here, I also expect better from you, Brock. This is medical school, for god’s sake. Learn some multisyllabic insults.”

Brock sputtered for a moment, but all he came up with was, “Fucking bitch.” Even Bucky snorted softly when Jane rolled her eyes.

“Well,” she sighed, “at least that had more than one syllable. I did set my standards low. Bucky, come sit with Clint and me. He wanted to ask you about this weekend.”

Bucky gathered his stuff wordlessly, not quite summoning the courage to look Brock in the eye, and followed meekly. He didn’t think Clint had mentioned anything about this weekend, but he knew an out when he saw one.

“What was that?” Clint asked curiously, while Jane settled down next to him, with Bucky on her other side.

“Brock’s putting an unusual amount of effort into being a dick today,” Jane said. Then she glanced at Bucky out of the corner of her eye. “Although, I’m getting the impression maybe that happens more often than some let on.”

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek and focused on arranging all the papers in front of him in perfect parallel lines. Nothing out of its place. Nothing sticking out to get bumped or torn or shredded.

“Oh,” Clint said, with more understanding than Bucky expected off the bat like that. “Is that a thing? We’re watching out for that now?”

“It’s not a thing,” Bucky said quickly.

“It’s a thing,” Jane said, without deigning to look at Bucky.

“Got it,” Clint said, nodded.

Bucky thought about saying something else, but the lecturer was starting and, who was he kidding? What could he possibly say to that? Clint and Jane could do as they wished. Brock would always do as he wished. Steve would do as he wished. And Bucky would just plain wish.

Later that day, he couldn’t have even told anyone what the lecture he’d sat through had been on.

 

***

 

Steve narrowed his eyes from where he sat at the kitchen table. Bucky had been avoiding him. Steve knew it, but he didn’t know how to approach it. Especially since Bucky had been doing it so well. It wasn’t like the start of last semester. It wasn’t silent disappearing acts. It was strategic communicated absence.

_I’ve got required classes all day tomorrow. Don’t stay up._

_Sorry, I’m volunteering at a clinic first thing in the morning. Need to get some sleep. Can’t stay up._

_Gonna spend the night at the school, so I don’t waste time before this quiz. I promise I’ll eat breakfast, and I promise I’ll get more than a couple of hours of sleep. Don’t stay up worrying._

_There’s a step one informational presentation going on at the school this afternoon, so I’m just going to study there today. Don’t stay up._

_I need a change in environment, and I know you need to be at the school for your project. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be downtown at the coffee shop. Don’t stay up._

_Don’t stay up._

_Don’t stay up._

_Don’t stay._

_Don’t._

After flipping through his limited options, Steve decided to approach the topic with his usual pre-coffee subtlety.

“Are you trying to break up with me?” he asked.

Bucky literally dropped the coffee mug he was holding. (When did he started drinking coffee again?) It shattered into pieces on the floor, hot coffee splashing onto the fake wood and Bucky’s ankles.

“Shit!” Steve exclaimed, leaping to his feet.

“I don’t want to break up!” Bucky said loudly, ignoring Steve’s distress and taking a goddamn physical step forward with his bare feet _onto the shards of the mug_.

“Fuck!” Steve yelped. “Bucky, don’t move.”

That, at least, got compliance, while Steve stood to the side and guided Bucky in a large step over the ceramic remains. Bucky followed the physical instructions, but was staring at Steve in obvious distress.

“Why do you think I want to break up?” he asked, while being pushed to sit in a chair. “What did I do? You promised to tell me if was doing anything wrong.”

“Fuck, you’re bleeding,” Steve winced, cocking his head to the side while staring of the bottom of Bucky’s foot. He’d yanked up the ankle to get a slight viewpoint, but now he kneeled down to see better.

“I love you,” Bucky said helplessly.

Steve bit his tongue to keep back tears while he tried to figure out how to get out the tiny bits of ceramic. He bit his tongue keep from asking if Bucky had stepped on the mug purposefully, as a distraction. He bit his tongue to keep from saying “I love you, too” because somehow even the beginning of the phrase felt dirty in his mouth. How could he love Bucky when he couldn’t help him? How could he love Bucky when he let this happen? That couldn’t be love. Love meant you protected and healed. Love meant fighting for someone. Love meant winning. Conquering.

All Steve could do was sit on the floor and wipe away blood and wonder how much longer Bucky would let him do even that.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 Hangovers are not limited to alcohol-induced methods of self-poisoning. Bucky was quickly learning that there were plenty of other ways to do damage that left him reeling and out of touch with reality the next morning. Some were as simple as staying up all night and pretending to study - who knew you could dance around to music for so long in a desperate attempt to distract yourself from the increasingly encroaching progression of time? Other ways were more subtle. Less definable. Like a slow conscious march into apathy.

The method didn’t matter in the end. It culminated in him in a synthetic hangover, bleary from physical or emotional exhaustion. His reaction times were down, especially when it came to social situations. He withdrew from conversations and then suddenly injected himself unwanted into others. He spent thirty-five minutes sitting in his car parked at his apartment, and he didn’t even do it on purpose to avoid Steve. He just forgot.

He forgot to move. He forgot to eat. Forgot responsibilities. Forgot social cues and facts about his classmates. Holding anything in his head that wasn’t related to medical school became completely superfluous. He ignored or deleted everything in his mind not related to the current class in a desperate attempt to retain his place in his school, but that didn’t end up mattering either. The class midterm was coming up on Monday, and he couldn’t keep a fact in his head for more than a couple of hours.

He spent the weekend rewatching all the lectures. He put them on double speed, put the laptop on the bed by his face, laid down facing the screen, and didn’t move for most of two days. He did not get to school early on Monday morning. He did not focus and study his way through the pre-test bustle. He did not hyperventilate in the bathroom before the exam. When the grade came up after he hit submit, he did not care.

58% - fail.

“No fucking shit, Sherlock” he muttered to himself as he made his way out of the testing room.

He did not wait to talk to any of his classmates. He did not text Steve. He did not run into Brock. He did not run into Clint. Did not stop. Did not pass go. Did not collect $200.

He did wake up on Tuesday morning. After sleeping approximately sixteen hours - he did not set an alarm - he opened his eyes to the view of his ceiling and felt...peaceful. He felt awake and with enough - though not plenty - of fucks to give the world. He stumbled out of bed and was disturbed by the state of the room. He felt itchy and dry with his need for a shower. He was starving.

The shower came first, with some surreptitious room cleaning as he dug for clean clothes. He raked his fingernails over his wet soapy skin, feeling the oil and exhaustion scrape off of him under the hot water. When he got out, he swiped one palm across the fogged mirror so he could look at himself.

“Where were you last week, you piece of shit?” he asked the reflection.

It didn’t deign to answer, so he secured the towel more firmly around his waist and wandered out into the kitchen to look for Steve and breakfast. Both were easy. Steve was standing at the stove starting scrambled eggs, which he would probably overcook and then eat anyway, thinking that was how they were supposed to taste.

“Morning,” Bucky greeted, and Steve looked up at the sudden sound.

“You never make any noise when you walk,” Steve complained, and then narrowed his eyes as he took in the towel and the wet hair. The speaking without being spoken to.

“You want any eggs?” he asked cautiously.

“Fuck yeah,” Bucky grinned. “But not the way you cook them. Scoot over.” He hip-checked Steve out of the way and pointed at the fridge, ordering, “Get the milk out. And the salt. I’d bet my savings account that you didn’t even salt these.”

Steve rolled his eyes but did as he was told while Bucky tilted the pan to check the consistency of the eggs so far.

“Someone got kicked out of our year,” Bucky announced, as Steve placed the requested milk on the counter next to the stove.

“Yeah?” Steve responded.

“He’s pissed as fuck. Friend of Brock’s, so I can’t say I think it’s any great loss, but he got caught with a prescription for an upper that wasn’t his. Which wouldn’t be such a big deal if he hadn’t gotten caught with it while he was being pulled over for drunk driving.”

“Oh shit,” Steve exclaimed. “Fucking idiot.”

“You’re telling me. Guy wasn’t drunk enough not to call our dean of students, though. So, of course, he’ll be back next year.”

“Wait, what? He’ll be back? The guy gets caught drunk driving, and they're not...you said they were kicking him out!”

Bucky half turned, surprised by Steve’s vehemence but still keeping an eye on the eggs, and clarified, “No, they kicked him out of our year. He’s supposed to take the rest of the semester to reconsider his life choices - deal with the fallout from his DUI - and then come back as a second year again in the fall. He’s _super_ pissed off about the whole thing. Doesn’t want to have to redo this entire fall semester, and wow do I understand that sentiment. I wouldn’t want to have to go through that again either.”

_Not that you would, you’d just fucking off yourself. Assuming that particular event would give you the final push of courage you need. Cowardly way out, and you can’t even manage that._

“I’m still stuck on the fact that the school is letting this guy back at all,” Steve pressed.

Bucky shrugged, turning all the way back to the eggs, now properly seasoned and almost done, as he said, “It’s really hard to get completely kicked out of medical school. The dean of students knows the chief of police and shit like that.”

“That’s….that’s fucking _partisan politics_!” Steve spat, and Bucky smiled to himself because he didn’t have to turn around to know that Steve had risen up onto his tiptoes and clenched his fists.

“That’s the professional world,” Bucky countered. “People in power justify it to themselves by saying that they protect their own. It’s almost worse than someone who’s entirely corrupt. People who have talked themselves into believing they’re on the right side are a thousand times more dangerous than someone who knows they’re in the wrong. People who know they’re wrong don’t have the strength of conviction.”

“I don’t understand how you aren’t pissed off about this,” Steve muttered.

“I am pissed off,” Bucky shrugged, tilting the pan to serve the eggs onto the two plates Steve had set out. “I’m pissed off all the time. It’s exhausting. I’m just also powerless. What, exactly, would you suggest I do about this situation?”

“There’s got to be something. Someone you can tell.”

“No one cares enough about an individual event like that. Maybe if you could prove it’s large scale, but it’s not like there’s paperwork. It’s not even illegal.”

“Throw a fit,” Steve pressed.

“And turn every single classmate against me? Sure, we all talk about how unfair it is that students can get away with that shit, but we’re all also secretly relieved that, should we seriously fuck up in a moment of drunken stupidity, there’s a powerful academic institution ready to have our back. It’s easy to say that it’s wrong, but threatening to take away that safety net from my classmates would ruin me socially. And being ruined socially in med school kills you. No one takes your rotations or covers for you. No one helps you with concepts you don’t understand or takes your consult calls. You get fucked over by inactivity. No active sabotage required.”

“You are freaking me the fuck out,” Steve gaped. “This is what you deal with?”

“I don’t deal with shit,” Bucky said bitterly, shoving a plate into Steve’s hands. “That’s the fucking problem, isn’t it? I’m not dealing.”

Steve bit the inside of his cheek, carefully considering his options. Bucky let him, both of them standing there with cooling congealing breakfast held in their hands between them. Bucky waited because maybe, just maybe, Steve would open his mouth and give him some wisdom that had been missing. Something new that Bucky hadn’t heard before.

“You seem alright today?” Steve ventured. And the question mark on the end was clear.

“Give it a few days,” Bucky said, smile twisting on his lips.

“I’d rather not,” Steve said. “Let’s do something. You had an exam yesterday, right? So there’s not a lot you have to do right now? Spend the day with me. Let’s see if we can figure something out.”

“Okay,” Bucky agreed. “Let’s try.”

It wasn’t like Bucky was coming up with any solutions. Maybe it was time to let Steve try.

 

***

 

January was fading into February, so the wind was still biting cold. Enough so that Bucky balked when Steve suggested going down to the lake. Steve pushed, and Bucky tried to push back, and in the end they compromised by wrapping Steve in far too many layers of clothing, inhaler in an outer pocket that even Bucky could reach if needed.

They didn’t do anything, really, other than walk the length of the beach. They saw more people than Bucky expected, underestimating the stubbornness of humanity, but it was still a sparse populace. Sparse enough to give privacy to any voiced thoughts, had any been voiced.

Bucky thought about trying, a few times. Experimented by taking deep breaths to see what kind of monumental effort would be necessary for speech. Each time he let the air out again, pondering the irrationality of a heavy chest when nothing physically weighed on it.

Steve, for his part, seemed content to walk in silence. They did it hand in hand, though. Steve’s gloved fingers wrapped around Bucky’s ungloved ones. It made Bucky lament the lost skin contact and - as soon as they were back in his car, motor running - he stripped Steve’s gloves off and pressed the cold fingertips to his lips.

Steve laughed, grinning sloppily but still blushing, the wind-whipped redness in his cheeks standing out all the more vibrantly.

“In a romantic mood?” he asked Bucky.

“In a worshipful mood,” Bucky corrected, debating pushing Steve’s fingers into his mouth to suck on. He decided against it only because a beachside parking lot was not on his list of places to get off.

“Worshiping, hm?” Steve hummed in amusement. “Well, there is so much of me to worship, after all.”

“All of you,” Bucky said, refusing to rise to the bait of banter and amusement. “From the sharpness in your eyes as you consider the world to the sharpness of your tongue when you condemn the condemnable. From your hands to your collarbones to the way you fold your legs under you when you’re concentrating. Your every idiosyncrasy is my idol.”

“Shit, Buck,” Steve said, ducking his head. “You’re gonna give me an ego.”

Bucky hummed, but didn’t comment as he finally let go and turned to shift the car into reverse. Steve was more than welcome to some ego, even if it would probably mean he’d leave Bucky in a ditch where he belonged.

“I pay attention to you, too,” Steve said, as they pulled out onto the street. “The way you’re always scanning the room, paying attention to everyone. How important it is for your friends to be happy. The way you’re always willing to go out of your way for a friend.”

_Three out of three, all symptoms of an abusive childhood._

“You’re sweet,” Bucky said out loud, and he forced himself to smile.

 

***

 

Like many good things, the abrupt return of Bucky’s internal motivation came at a price. He briefly tapped into his fluctuating - _growing_ \- apathy to help him come to terms with the failed exam, but he also didn’t want to return to that state any time soon. Therefore, other things could not afford to be ignored.

_You freaked Steve out, he’s never going to forgive you for emotionally dropping off the face of the planet like that, especially not if you do it again._

Brock was becoming a problem. Jane and Clint didn’t come to school very often, and Brock hadn’t used to either, but paradigms were shifted as the entire class coiled in tense anticipation of the step exam. Brock apparently dealt with stress by making Bucky’s life hell.

No, that was disingenuous, Bucky reminded himself yet again. Brock wasn’t being a dick on purpose, he was just around more often. His personality just clashed with Bucky’s. Bucky just didn’t have the social acumen - courage - to tell Brock when something he said was damaging or unsettling.

“A patient with a silvery rash gets an arthrocentesis. What disease would you expect to find in the synovial fluid?” Brock posited to Bucky. They, along with several other students had been hanging around waiting for a required lecture to start and Brock had taken the opportunity to quiz those in attendance with practice USMLE questions.

Bucky had known a lot of them already, but he didn’t have the slightest clue on this one. It seemed like there should be more information than that.

“Can I get the multiple choices?” he asked, causing Brock to tsk.

“Real life medical practice doesn’t come with multiple choices,” he admonished.

“But step one does,” Clint called from further down the group.

“It’s not my fault he doesn’t know it,” Brock scoffed, loudly, all the way back down to Clint, gaining the attention of pretty much everyone lounging around. All of whom were now focused on Bucky and his failure.

“Here,” Brock said. “I’ll give you another one. Second chance.”

“Thanks anyway, but I’m good,” Bucky attempted. He was overruled.

“Describe the mechanism by which hepatitis B facilitates infection by hepatitis D.”

“Jeez Brock, none of us know that one. That’s way too fucking specific,” Clint scoffed. At least he’d stood up and walked over now. Not that they didn’t still have everyone’s attention. In fact, pointed looks were becoming more pointed. Clint looked like he wanted a fight, and everyone was bored of studying.

“I don’t need you to defend me,” Bucky snapped.

“You’re being a dick,” Clint continued, still speaking to Brock.

“By quizzing him with practice questions?” Brock asked, waving his phone. “I’m not making these up; they’re from a USMLE-affiliated website.

“Quizzing him _is_ being a dick, if he just wants you to leave him alone,” Clint pushed.

Him.

Him. Him. Him. Bucky was right there, leaning against a half wall, and he was still the indirect third person.

“Fine,” Brock sighed dramatically, turning and walking away to presumably find a more accepting audience.

Clint turned to look at Bucky in what was probably triumph, but Bucky was looking out a nearby window and refused to turn and make eye contact. Clint was close enough that it could not be mistaken for accidental oversight. Eventually, Clint left as Brock had.

Part of Bucky knew he was being an asshole. The other part wasn’t sure if Brock’s torture was more or less bearable when Clint stuck his fingers in unasked. It wasn’t like Brock was purposefully asking overly-difficult questions. It was coincidence that Bucky had known the others and not the two posited to him. Thinking it was on purpose would be crazy. Paranoid. It wouldn’t be worth Brock’s time to put that much effort into hurting Bucky.

 

***

 

“Steve!” Clint greeted, and Steve couldn’t help but grin. Clint’s enthusiasm was tangible even through the phone speaker.

“Always nice to hear from you,” Clint continued. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a phone call? I don’t know if the kids have told you yet, but us youngens are texting most of these days.”

“I guess I’m just an old soul,” Steve snorted. Then he hesitated, warring with truth versus intention. In reality, he’d called so he could hear Clint’s tone of voice when he spoke. All the better to gauge the meaning of your words, my dear.

“I guess you are,” Clint filled in, when Steve did not seem inclined to speak further. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“Couple things. First of all, have you heard from Natasha recently? I know you said she comes and goes, but I haven’t heard from her since before winter break. I know you two are closer, so I thought maybe?”

Steve brought his sentence to a half-hearted end as he realized he didn’t know exactly what he was trying to ask, and Clint chuckled softly in the ensuing silence.

“Babe!” Clint called, and Steve thought - for a split second - that the endearment was for him. Then, “Steve wants to know if you’re alive. Say hi.”

Then Natasha’s muffled voice, “He is not my keeper. Tell him to fuck off and mind his own business.”

Clint again, “Natasha says thanks for checking in and that she’s fine.”

“I'm sure she-” Steve started to say, but was interrupted by Natasha shouting again.

“I most certainly am _not_ fine. I’m _stabbed._ ”

“Well, I didn’t think you wanted me to _tell_ him that? Geez, make up your mind, will you?”

“Um,” Steve said. “Did she say...stabbed?”

“It’s healing,” Clint said. “I got to practice sutures, and everything is a-okay.” He did not offer further commentary on the subject, although he did continue, “Anything else? Since, Natasha is _clearly_ 100% fine.”

“Uh, yeah, actually. More checking up on friends.”

“You want to know how Bucky’s doing,” Clint finished for him.

“Yeah.”

“Honestly, Steve. He’s being kind of a dick. He’s snapping at people and then ignoring them. He’s leaving groups in an offended huff without explanation. He not joining us for lunch or study groups.”

“Not joining you for lunch doesn’t make him a dick,” Steve interrupted.

“No, it doesn’t. That’s not what I’m saying.” Clint paused, sighed heavily, and tried again. “I’m not saying that he’s being a dick in an aggressive way. That’s all Brock’s thing. I’m saying that he’s...he’s….I don’t know. He’s giving off the impression of constant irritation. Or constant disconnect. Just the other day, Brock was being a purposeful dick, quizzing people at the school. And when he’d get to Bucky, he’s swtich to the difficult section of the review. He’s doing this in public, trying to make Bucky look like an idiot.”

Steve stared straight ahead at the wall, standing still. Frozen, when he had just been pacing around with the idleness of someone too preoccupied with their conversation to notice the motion of their feet.

Why hadn’t Bucky said anything?

“Brock _who_?” He said coldly into the phone. “Give me a last name.”

“Hang on, I’m not done with my story. My point is that I walk over and called the guy out, because god knows Bucky wasn't going to do it.”

“Hey!” Steve snapped, anger still bubbling. It was oddly invigorating. He hadn’t realized how drained he’d been feeling until warming fury dripped through him.

“I’m not trying to insult your boyfriend!” Clint snapped back, clearly exasperated. “I’m freaked out. He doesn’t defend himself. _Ever_ . So I stepped over and called Brock out, and Bucky got pissed. He wouldn’t even make eye contact. Completely, and _purposefully_ , fucking ignored me.”

“He was probably embarrassed, Clint,” Steve snapped back. “Did you think of that?”

“Yes, I thought of that,” Clint said, and the anger that had briefly been growing to match Steve’s vanished. “I’m sorry, Steve. I...I’ve got my own issues. You know some of them, but...I...I do not do well with being ignored. It’s...it’s really bad for me. I’m trying with Bucky, I really am, but I’m being torn in a lot of directions, and I just don’t how to help him. I’m really fucking worried about him. Did you know that an entire medical school class worth of students kill themselves every year? Enough med student commit suicide, on an annual basis, that they could make an entirely new class with the dead.”

Steve’s fury turned to ice and nausea in his body.

“I didn’t know it was that prevalent.”

“It’s that prevalent.”

There was silence, and then a shuffling noise, and then Natasha's voice. Clear, this time, through the phone she had obviously snatched away from Clint.

“You’re upsetting my boy,” she said, her frown audible in her voice even as Clint whined, “Nat, I’m _fine_ ,” in the background.

“We’re all a little upset these days,” Steve countered. “How are you doing? I heard somewhere that you got stabbed.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Natasha said primly. “Why would a nice girl like me get stabbed? I’ve never made an enemy in my life.”

“Not that you let live,” Steve guessed, and was gratified by Natasha’s delicate snort of laughter. “Honestly, though,” he continued. “We’re talking about Bucky. He’s not doing well. Although, he’s doing a hell of a lot better than he was a few weeks ago.”

“What happened a few weeks ago?”

“He shut down. Almost completely. He was still going to required classes - at least I think he was going to required classes - but he wasn’t doing anything else. Terrifying. I seriously considered taking him to the ER when it was at its worst.”

“Did you two talk about it?”

“You sound like you're auditioning for a bonafide relationship counselor, Natasha.”

“That’s a no, then?”

“No. Bucky doesn’t like to do The Talking. Plus he’s over it now. I mean, I’m not saying he’s completely better or anything, but he’s gaining ground. I’m never letting him go back to his step-father’s house ever again. I will tie him to the fucking couch if it comes to it.”

“Do you know why so many antidepressants have warnings for suicide as a potential side-effect? As in, people start taking the medication and then a large enough number of them subsequently kill themselves that there’s a statistical probability that the medication is the cause.”

“That seems like...the _opposite_ of what’s it’s supposed to do,” Steve said cautiously, too used to Natasha to comment on the non sequitur.

“It is the opposite of what it’s supposed to do. So do you know why that happens so often?”

“Why?”

“Because suicidal ideation is a pervasive thought process. It takes longer to recover from than other aspects of depression. Say, for example, a lack of energy. So say that this person has been struggling with both suicidal ideation and zero energy for a long time, and they start taking this medication and wow! Suddenly they have energy, because that’s one of the quicker things to come back. Serotonin levels boost and pleasure is possible again. Unfortunately, those pervasive thoughts about suicide are still there, and shit, would you look at that? Now this person suddenly has the energy to follow through, whereas before they could just wish."

The ice was back in Steve’s veins again.

“You’re just a bundle of fucking joy,” Steve said bitterly.

“I’m just warning you that a little energy can be a bad thing, given the wrong circumstances.”

“I don’t want to talk about this any more,” Steve said bluntly.

“Fine,” Natasha said, and shuffled the phone back to Clint again.

“She’s right about the antidepressants,” he said, by way of re-greeting.

“I know,” Steve sighed. “We’re talking about something else now. Pick a new topic.”

“Sure. Um...how’s the weather there?”

“It’s exactly the same as it is where you are, you moron, but thanks for trying. I was thinking more along the lines of how _you’re_ doing.”

“Me?” Clint said in surprise. “I’m doing fine. Thanks for asking, though.”

“Oh you’d like for that to be the fucking end of it, wouldn’t you?” Steve laughed. “Sorry, Clint, but Bucky has you beat on that particular skill set, and I have fine-tuned my bullshit meter within an inch of its life. Try again. How are you doing?”

Clint laughed softly and then said, “I’m doing about as well as can be expected. Natasha’s watching me like a hawk though. Don’t worry about me in that regard. I’m not alone.”

“Still,” Steve said. “I haven’t talked to you in forever. I mean, really talked. I keep asking you about Bucky this and Bucky school and Bucky headlines. I didn’t mean to become one of those people who only talks about their boyfriend.”

“You suggesting anything in particular?”

“Yeah, actually. I’m starting my senior project soon, and I need a malleable male model for at least the start of it. I’d ask Bucky, but he’s not the seasoned professional like you.”

“I’m listening,” Clint said, grin back in his voice.

“I can give you $5 an hour, control over the music, whatever alcohol you can find in the apartment, as many breaks as you need, and no requirement to wear pants.”

“I don’t have to wear pants?”

“No. In fact, I have to insist that you don’t.”

“Deal!” Clint crowed.

 

***

 

Bucky should probably have gotten used to having his spaces violated. By Clint, specifically. Although, to be fair, Naked Clint was a new one. Usually it was some form of Oblivious Well-Meaning and Fully Clothed Clint.

Bucky did still have the presence of mind to catch the apartment door before it slammed shut on its own gravitational swing. It always made a crashing noise that shook the apartment and, Bucky was sure, annoyed the neighbors. He didn’t want to annoy the neighbors.

“Clint,” he greeted, taking in the scene.

“Hey Bucky!” Steve greeted, waving without turning around. He was straddling a bench easel, and the paper in front of him was covered in small sketches. The usual way Steve started when he was trying to find out what he was looking for.

“Bucky,” Clint greeted, smile on his face as he glanced up. Everyone was always fucking smiling, except for Bucky.

Clint, for his part, was butt naked. He was currently contorted sideways, stretching to peer over his shoulder at a book lying on the floor that was clearly too far away for him to get at properly. Bucky glanced from the scene to the multitude of sketches across the page, to the discarded papers on either side of Steve.

“Been here a while?” he asked.

Steve grimaced. “Yeah, I guess they’re getting pretty stupid. I just can’t figure out what I’m trying to do. I mean, I have an idea just…” He gestured  above his head with both hands. “Just nothing else.”

“You’re lucky I’m flexible,” Clint said, taking that as an invitation to untwist from his unnatural position. “For someone who knows so much about the human anatomy, you don’t seem to have a good grasp on what joints are and are not capable of.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining at the time,” Steve smirked.

It was just this side of flirting. Meaningless. Old friends. They were doing it right in front of Bucky so _not enough respect to even hide it_ they clearly weren’t doing anything wrong in their books. Steve wasn’t the kind of guy to mess around behind your back. He was the kind of guy to sit you down with a cup of coffee and home-cooked breakfast and have a Talk about How This is Going.

_Maybe he’ll do that tomorrow, and he’s just trying to give you a subconscious heads-up._

“We done for the day?” Clint asked.

“Yeah. Put some fucking pants back on or something,” Steve laughed. Bucky bit the inside of his cheek to keep from following that up with something too rude to be passed off as teasing. Instead, he knelt down and straightened some of the discarded pages on the floor.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said softly, and Bucky looked up from where he was kneeling to where Steve was sitting. Bucky suddenly tipped his head forward to rest his forehead on Steve’s knee. Steve ran his fingers through Bucky’s hair in response, carding deeply so his nails scratched Bucky’s scalp. _Maybe he can peel the skin away and get at whatever is wrong inside._

“Why didn’t you tell me about Brock?” Steve asked.

Bucky removed his head from Steve’s knee.

“I’ve told you about Brock,” he said carefully.

“No, you’ve told me that he exists and that he’s a dick. That he uses the school system to his advantage regardless of who it fucks over in the meantime. You didn’t tell me that he’d personally targeted you for some, as of yet, uncommunicated reason.”

Bucky glanced at Clint, who was trying to be invisible while he made French Press coffee in the kitchen. Unfortunately, he didn’t have Natasha’s skill set, so he was instead a loud boxer-clad intrusion.

_Disingenuous. He’s your friend, and you treat him like shit. Be better than this._

“Yeah, Clint told me,” Steve confirmed. “You gonna get mad about that? Are you going to pout and lock yourself in your room and say that you don’t want to talk about it and it wasn’t his business and you’re dealing with it?”

“I _am_ dealing with it.”

“I specifically recall you saying that you’re not dealing with _shit_ ,” Steve snapped.

Bucky flinched and wondered if he’d ever outgrow that particular reflex.

“What do you want me to do,” Bucky asked wearily. “What exactly are you suggesting? Because you seem to always have a whole lot to say about your opinions on my decisions, but you don’t offer any other options in return.”

“Tell him to fuck off!”

“Can’t. Can’t prove he’s being malicious on purpose. He’s popular and smart. It would burn bridges I’m barely holding on to as it is.”

“Fuck those people,” Steve pushed. “Anyone who matters won’t give a shit about you defending yourself. Anyone who thinks you’re stepping over some kind of professional line can go to hell right along with Brock.”

Bucky laughed. He couldn’t help it. He laughed and it was only a little bit bitter. He buried his face in Steve thigh and he laughed. Then he stood up, bent down to kiss Steve’s confused face and said, “Thank you for being angry for me. I love you more than anything. And maybe, if we’re very very lucky, it will turn out that I love you enough.”

Then he went to bed, shutting the door gently behind him.

 

***

 

Steve was cooking the next morning when Bucky emerged from his room. It was a Saturday morning and Steve was fully dressed. He did not usually get dressed in order to cook, preferring the slow awakening of straight-out-of-bed languidity, but he’d needed it today. Needed it like armor.

“Want anything in particular for breakfast?” Steve asked, without turning around to look at Bucky. He was just too tired, and somehow it seemed as though looking at Bucky would be the final straw in whatever wobbling tower was losing its battle inside of Steve.

“Kisses?”

Steve stopped moving where he was. The memory was too sweet to be anything but painful.

“Kisses for breakfast? Please, Steve?” Bucky asked, and Steve closed his eyes against tears.

“What are we doing, Bucky?” he asked. "It feels like we're not doing anything at all anymore."

Then he had to open his eyes because Bucky put his hand on his shoulder and turned him around physically. He bent down and kissed Steve and at first it was like the night before. Quick and shallow, like a kiss goodbye. Then it changed. Bucky cupped his hand under the line of Steve’s jaw, one finger right on the pulse, and changed the angle. Deepened everything. Bucky licked at the sharp edge of Steve’s teeth and, when Steve tried to return to motion, nipped at Steve’s tongue with his lips. He made a sound low in his throat, and Steve tilted his head back, raising up on tiptoes.

Bucky took the elevation as an invitation, and pulled Steve’s thigh up around Bucky’s waist, pinning him roughly against the counter behind them, applying a pressure between them that let Steve grind and allow a moan of his own. Bucky ground them together harder in response and Steve opened his mouth to gasp in almost-pain. Bucky bit his lower lip, and then tilted his head to kiss at Steve neck. When the angle wasn’t what he wanted, he wrapped his fingers in Steve’s hair and pulled, forced Steve’s neck to bend so Bucky could bite harder against the tense pale skin.

“Bucky,” Steve gasped. “Bucky.”

Bucky responsed to the invocation - the prayer - with another crushing surge forward, and Steve bucked his hips into the pressure, chasing friction. One sharp disorienting movement, and Steve found himself lifted into the air and deposited roughly onto the counter. The back of his head hit the cabinet behind him and it didn’t even hurt the tiniest bit, even though Bucky murmured a hasty “sorry” into the curve between Steve’s neck and his shoulder.

Bucky still had one hand tangled in Steve hair so when he came back up to kiss Steve’s mouth again, he tightened his grip and directed the kiss, barely letting Steve move on his own at all. Even though the new angle put Steve as the taller one, he could do little but cave to the way Bucky pulled him down.

“Bucky,” Steve said again, just as breathless, but less distracted. More purposeful. The surprise was wearing off, and the rest of his brain was reengaging.

Bucky responded by pushing the fingers of his other hand underneath the back of Steve’s waistband, scratch the skin of his ass with sharp nails, before squeezing the abused area tightly enough that Steve made another noise of almost-pain.

“Bucky,” Steve tried again. “Bucky, stop. Hold on.”

Bucky sighed heavily, letting his head drop away from Steve’s face to rest on his shoulder instead. He let the hand in Steve’s hair fall to the counter by Steve’s hip, but he left the other where it was, tucked in just under the waistband, forcing himself in close to Steve.

“We can’t just fix this with fucking,” Steve panted.

“We could try,” Bucky offered. “Then, if you’re right, we can consider other options later.”

“Nice try,” Steve scoffed. “Sorry.”

“I figured. All right. You want to talk, let’s talk. Anything in particular you want to talk about.”

“How are you doing?” Steve asked. He directed the question, by nature of their position, over Bucky’s head. Across the room. At the wall opposite them. Then he waited for Bucky to respond in the same way the wall did.

“I am not very good,” Bucky said carefully. “I'm frustrated, because I seem to have lost so much ground, and pissed off at myself because I knew it would probably happen, but I went back to that fucking house anyway.”

Steve didn’t say anything at all. He tried to make his breathing more shallow, barely disturbing Bucky’s position resting against his chest.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with it, though," he continued. "I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Steve barely breathed. Just enough air to take the words.

“You are not responsible for your disease, but you are responsible for your recovery.”

Steve waited for an explanation, but when none came, he was forced to ask, “Meaning?”

Bucky pulled back, moving both his hands to Steve’s thighs - bracing himself - and said, “It’s what addiction doctors tell their patients. You aren’t to blame for getting sick. For becoming addicted. For breaking from reality. For wanting to die. That is not your responsibility any more than cancer would be. Or cystic fibrosis. However, you’re responsible for what happens next. And I have not been handling the ‘what happens next’ part very well at all. So I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need--”

“No,” Bucky interrupted, moving his hands from Steve’s thighs to his face. Bracketing. “I’m sorry. Accept that. I have not been handling this well. At the very least, I’ve hurt you, and you get an apology for that. Intentionality of the damage of it is irrelevant. Damage was done.” He brushed his thumb underneath Steve’s eye. “You’re so tired. You’re dripping with exhaustion and bruising itself underneath your eyes, and that's on me."

“Okay,” Steve said, and the single admission broke free the thoughts he’d been cramming away into silence for weeks and months. Bucky swiped his thumb across Steve’s face again, this time to catch a tear.

“Okay,” Bucky echoed.

“Where is this coming from?” Steve asked.

“Fuck if I know. Maybe repetition really is the key to success. Or are you asking how long this new-found honesty is going to stick around? Because the answer is ‘as long as I can hold on to it.’ “

“Will you go to a therapist?”

They were pressed too closely to each other for Bucky to hide the involuntary flinch at the words.

“Will you at least think about it?” Steve amended.

“Of course. I’ll think about it.”

“I’m not going to demand you’re better over night,” Steve said. “I know better than that, but there are still some things that you absolutely cannot do. Things that I just cannot handle.”

“Deal-breakers,” Bucky smiled, returning his hands to Steve’s thighs. He ducked in for a quick kiss and then said, “Okay. Shoot.”

“You’re never going back again. Your wanna-be father can rip off his dick and fuck himself in the ass with it for all I care. You’re not going back.”

“With that kind of vivid imagery, how can I refuse?” Bucky said dryly.

“I’m serious.”

“Okay. Agreed. Never going back. In fact, I’ll get his number blocked. How does that sound?” His brow furrowed, and he grimaced. “Okay, no, wait. It’s his cellphone plan, so I probably can’t do that.”

“We’ll get you another cellphone if we have to.”

“We can’t just go and get--”

“Second,” Steve pressed on. “I get leveled up in your priority system. I can handle being second place to your medical career. I can not handle being second place to your self-hatred. I absolutely refuse.”

The hesitation on that one was longer before, “All right. But you might have to help me.”

“How so?”

“I need the Steve Rogers who yelled at a stranger from twenty-five feet away in order to protect a waitress. Protect me.”

“Yell at you?” Steve asked, one side of his mouth curving in a half-smile.

“Absolutely. I am officially giving you permission. It’s not blanket, so be careful. I won’t appreciate it much, so don’t be frivolous. But if I start sacrificing you for my, as you put it, self-hatred, then you kick me in the ass. I don’t get a pass on that.”

A small part of Steve wondered how he’d ended up with all the responsibility again, but he firmly ignored it. It wasn’t all the responsibility. It was just the Steve-related parts of responsibility. That was fair for a relationship and, while he considered it, the thoughts struck a memory.

“My mom used to say that relationships didn’t work if both parties put in 50% of the necessary work. That even though that makes 100%, it would still fall short. The only way is for everyone to give 100%. Do 100% of the work. Shoulder 100% of the responsibility. Make 100% of the sacrifices. And then, somehow, they just barely end up meeting in the middle.”

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Bucky said solemnly. “You sure you’re in?”

“You are worth everything that I’ve got,” Steve said, just as solemnly. “What about you? Sounds like a lot of work.”

“I might not have a lot to give these days,” Bucky said. “But you can have it all. Do with it what you will, but it’s all yours. All of it.”

“All right then. Now, I guess we meet somewhere in the middle.”

“Does that mean we can get back to what we were doing _before_ you decided to force us to be adults who actually attempt dealing with our problems?”

“Hell, yes. Use your nails again.”

“You liked that?” Bucky grinned.

“I liked that.”

 

***

 

Speaker’s remorse. When, in a moment of emotional vulnerability, something heartfelt is said. A revelation is made. An admission. A promise. And it is swiftly followed by a pervasive dread that it should not have been said.

Loose lips sink ships.

Speaker’s remorse is not based on any lack of veracity in the revelation. In fact, the most heartfelt truths create the deepest fears. As though, by allowing sunlight to touch such things, a soul has been bared. Left open and vulnerable to the elements. Unable to be tucked away back into its festering safety.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for dropping off the planet. I had intended to finish this fic over Winter Break, but it turns out this fic requires a certain mindset to be able to write it, and that mindset is not to be found during Winter Break. Who knew?
> 
> That being said, I want to stress the "suicide attempt" warning up there. This chapter is the "dark before the storm" chapter. While this is the worst it gets, I did not sugar-coat or subtly talk around these issues.

 

 

It takes a lot, in a two grade class, to recover from a 58% on the first of them. While Bucky did get his life in a semblance of order, and while he did feel like he’d passed the final, it did not feel like he’d done it by enough. With how the weighting fell, he’d needed an 86.75%, and that had been unlikely since day one of the class.

Leaving the exam room, he guessed he’d landed somewhere around a 78-79%. He guessed he’d be retaking the final. He guessed he’d just one-step-forward-two-steps-backed himself into hell.

The worst part had to be the calm inevitability of waiting for the grade to officially be posted. Again, like the other finals, the return was just a little bit slower than regular tests. So Bucky got to wait, knowing but not knowing, in limbo.

Maybe limbo versus hell was the devil’s inside joke. Maybe limbo was the real hell. Part of Bucky certainly felt it would be a relief to face official condemnation, rather than Schrodinger’s academic limbo. What could be worse that cyclical hopelessness?

The answer was whatever words described the feeling that dripped through Bucky when he saw the word “Fail” looking out at him from his phone screen. It was not, as last time had been, a slow decline into apathy. It was, rather, an abrupt drop into silent fury. A black hole of a pit, still within his stomach, but nonetheless violent and horrifying.

He was standing in line for his coffee to be finished, having already paid, but he turned and walked out. Part of his mind was jumping through the hoops of rationality, planning the retake and thinking through the timeline. Adjusting his tentative step one study plans to accommodate more work. Different work.

The other part of his mind was terrifyingly silent in its undirected rage. Cold. Something to be placated before it struck out and did damage.

 _It was the easiest class_ , his rational mind whined plaintively, and then gave up. The drive home was alone twixt Bucky and whatever rage that waited within him.

 _Stupid fucking prick_ , it promised him. _You’ll never recover from this. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. And yet, somehow, nothing more or less than what was expected._

 

***

 

“Hey Bucky!” Steve greeted.

“This isn’t your apartment, Clint,” Bucky said, as his only response.

Steve twisted around from where he was sketching, bent over and cross-legged, to raise both his eyebrows at Bucky. He’d been having a great time with Clint - it was nice to get back into the old friendship - and Bucky’s walking cloud of sullen was a visceral conflict with that mood.

Clint, mostly dressed this time, didn’t directly respond to the half-accusation, but he did seem to wilt. Or flinch, maybe. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what it was, but he changed. And with that, the tone of the room sunk to Bucky’s level.

“What the _fuck_?” Steve spat, too angry to consider any consequences down the line. It felt good, in a way, to just be angry again.

“It’s okay, Steve,” Clint said quietly, but the lie was revealed by how he was beginning to gather his things, unprompted. Well, unprompted by Steve.

“It’s not okay,” Steve demanded, ignoring Bucky shuffling behind him, doing something in the kitchen.

“Grades came out today,” Clint said with a sad smile.

Whatever Steve was about to think or say in response to that was drowned in the flood of emotion that followed the next moments. Bucky chucked a spoon at Clint. It was just a light metal spoon, but it had enough weight and enough force behind it to cross the room. It whistled past first Steve - far - and then Clint - very close - before hitting the opposite wall with a dull clang. It bounced back a little, and hit the floor anticlimactically.

Clint’s reaction was not anticlimactic. He full-body flinched away from the sudden movement past his face. He went pale, bent at the knees a little, and threw a hunted look behind Steve at what Steve could only assume was Bucky.

Steve rounded in anger. He was speechless at that moment, but he knew it was about to pass. Bucky had his back to them again, making coffee.

“Don’t butt in where you’re not asked for, Clint,” Bucky said.

“You fucking disaster of a human being,” Steve spat, and Clint’s soft whimper behind him only spurred him on further. “What lack of foresight prompted you to come into this apartment and behave like your father?”

Bucky turned around at that, matching Steve’s anger drip for drip, Steve could see it in his eyes. This was on the brink of very ugly. Maybe it had already moved past it. Clint was just standing there, behind.

“I am not behaving like my father,” Bucky seethed. “I am tired of having one of my few spaces constantly invaded by my unavoidable school life. I don’t recall you asking, Steve, if you could have someone over constantly. Someone I knew. Someone who would lounge around without clothes on for you to focus all your attention on while I...I...while I _stutter_ my way through my life.”

“Do not make this a jealousy thing,” Steve snapped.

“I know this isn’t technically my apartment, but I pay rent, too. I pay for this space.”

“This isn’t about you!”

“You made it about me the moment you brought my father into it, don’t fucking backtrack now. You said that just because you knew it would get a reaction, and you don’t know how to deal with me when I don’t react. Because you always react. You always react with the first thing in your head, and it scares you that I don’t do the same, and you’d rather hurt me than be uncomfortable.”

“This is _not_ about _you_ , you entitled prick,” Steve screamed. “This is about how you just made Clint feel like shit for nothing other than existing. And if half the things you’ve told me about your father are accurate, then that’s exactly what acting like him looks like!”

“Should I go?” Clint asked. “I’m gonna go.”

“Do whatever you like, Clint,” Steve panted. “I hope you’re not making a decision because Bucky decided it’s make-everyone-feel-as-shitty-as-me day. But if you want to go you can.”

“I’m gonna go,” Clint said, and it was almost a laugh, but Steve wasn’t turning around to look. He had his eyes fixed on Bucky like a target. He didn’t even turn when he heard Clint walk out the door.

“Happy now?” Bucky spat.

“I didn’t do that,” Steve insisted, pointing at the door. Clint hadn’t caught it on the way out, and it had slammed loudly. The picture frames rattled briefly against the walls, which were thin and susceptible to sudden force. “And if you really think I did then--hey! Are you even paying attention to me?” The coffee had been sitting brewing in the French Press while the exchange had happened and now Bucky was pouring it, calmly, into his travel mug.

“That’s not done brewing,” Steve said, and even he realized immediately how petty it sounded. But Bucky had gone back to not reacting, like a flipped lightswitch, and fuck it he’d had had a point about Steve and reactions.

“I’m going to bed,” Bucky said, screwing the top on the mug of black coffee.

“With coffee?” Steve scoffed.

“Good night.”

Then Steve was left alone in the apartment with his thoughts and a half-finished sketch that he’d just been starting to like.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed to the room. And then again, because there was no one to hear him the first time, “Fuck!” He threw the pencil he’d been holding, watching it bounce off the wall and to the floor, and tried to consider that action as different from Bucky’s own physical outburst of anger.

He suddenly turned and ran for the door, shoeless and without a coat. The cold hurt, but if he moved his legs fast enough, the concrete didn’t cold-burn his feet. That didn’t help his lungs, but it was always one problem or another. He made it down to the parking lot just in time. Clint had just turned the key in the ignition when Steve reached up and tapped on the driver’s side window. Or maybe thumped would have been a better description. His lungs hurt a lot, and he could hear the wheeze in his voice. Fucking inhaler still upstairs.

Clint startled violently at the noise and looked at Steve in confusion. Steve realized Clint had a phone to his face, holding it pinned between his cheek and his shoulder so he could turn the key and shift gears with his hand. Steve waved, and Clint rolled the window down.

“Hold on Nat,” Clint said. Then, “What, Steve?”

“I’m really sorry we did that in front of you. Bucky and I have been dancing around a real fight for weeks now, maybe longer, and I shouldn’t have let it happen like that in front of you. Its waited this long, it could have waited a few more minutes.”

“Or you could have kept your temper,” Clint said dully.

“Or that,” Steve agreed. His temper had always been like candle smoke. Strong and distinct when present but blown away with a breath. Sure he was also stubborn, but the anger - the rage - came and went without substance. It had taken him a long time, and a few lost friends, for him to realize that others around him didn’t share his opinion on outbursts like that. Even if they were nothing to Steve, they were everything to some people. People like Clint.

“I’m really sorry I yelled like that,” Steve pushed.

“Nat says I should forgive you,” Clint said.

“Oh. Um, honestly I’m a little surprised by that, but tell her I’m really grateful.”

“She says I have to forgive you so I won’t be suspected of murder when they find your body in the ditch she’s going to leave you in.”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah that...that seems more like what I expected from her. Tell her that’s fair, and that I’m sorry anyway.”

“I’ll talk her round. But I’m not dealing with Bucky anymore. I’ll be pleasant, but I’m done trying to be his friend. I can’t. I understand he’s struggling, but if he’s going to throw things...throw things _at_ me, then I’m out. I have to...medical school is stressful for everyone. We’re all dealing with things from our past that we thought we were over.”

“I understand,” Steve said solemnly, and the weight of Clint’s history with his own father hung between them, unspoken. They’d already had that conversation once.

“Okay. Then…” Clint smiled faintly, ‘...get back inside before you die out here. I’d have to get out and do CPR and call 911 and shit.”

“Sounds like a pain in the ass,” Steve said, grinning back.

“See ya around,” Clint said, and rolled back up the window.

Steve climbed the stairs back up to the apartment, slowly and carefully. He had no desire to go another round with Bucky tonight. They were both pretty bruised and, if he’d understood Clint correctly, Bucky had just gotten some pretty bad news. He’d let things sit. Let them both get some sleep, and then he’d bring it up the next day like a fucking adult.

 

***

 

 _I am a piece of shit as a person_ , Bucky thought to himself. It was a monumental epiphany. He’d had the thought before, sure, but it had been as though he was trying to convince himself. As though he was working to get ahead of the rest of the world. Insult me all you want, I’ve already thrown those words at myself in the dark.

This was different. He was suddenly struck with a complete sense of worthlessness, overlaid with Clint’s expression as he’d thrown the spoon. Stupid cheap metal. But it had done so much damage so quickly.

Yelling at Steve. Acting as though Steve had no right to accuse him of being like his father. _Being_ like his father. And then further back than that. Med school and friends lost along the way.

 _There is absolutely no unselfish reason for me to be alive_ , he thought. It was strangely freeing.

 

***

 

Bucky threw the twenty dollar bills down onto the desk Brock was bent over. They slid, soft and whisper-quiet, across the textbook and half off onto the desk, tilting haphazardly between the two. Brock startled, just then realizing someone else was there, glancing back to see who it was. Surprise clearly widened in his eyes. Then he glanced quickly around the rest of the room, going so far as to roll his chair to look around the half-corner to make sure they really were alone.

“Think I’m setting you up?” Bucky asked, amused.

“I’m not thinking anything,” Brock said carefully. He looked back at the twenties. “Except maybe what it is you’re asking for.”

“Something interesting. Got anything in mind? Dealer’s choice.”

Brock was eyeing him carefully. Eyes narrowed. Sizing him up and trying to draw intention, and it made elation flood Bucky. He literally did not give a shit. There were no consequences now. There would be consequences somewhere, for someone, but none of that was a part of this. His now.

Now Brock was scared of Bucky for the first time, and Bucky was brimming with that fact. For a fleeting second, he knew exactly why Brock acted the way he did. This was fantastic.

“Look...Bucky,” Brock began.

“It’s James. It’s always been James, to you. It will always be James.” He gestured with one hand to the twenties. “What’ll that get me? I’m aiming more quantity than quality. Assuming you’re working with professional grades.”

“Dude it’s just prescription stuff,” Brock said, then glanced around again, as though someone had manifested in the three minutes they’d been talking.

“So you do have prescription stuff then? Good, because I’m interested.” He pointed back at the twenties, spilled on the desk. “What will that get me?”

“Um, what are you looking for?”

“Hm...got any beta-blockers?”

“What?” Brock considered this new curve ball, eyes flicking back and forth as he tried to figure out what Bucky meant by that. Beta blockers slowed your heart and its workload. There was neither high nor focus to be had from them.

“Just kidding,” Bucky grinned. “Tell me what you do have.”

“This isn’t a stop and shop,” Brock spluttered, finally getting to his feet in an attempt to regain control of Bucky.

Bucky snapped his fingers in Brock’s face, once. A sharp noise and sudden movement that forced Brock to reflexively take a step back.

“It’s whatever the fuck I want it to be, Brock.” It had never struck Bucky before this moment, that Brock and he were approximately the same size. Brock had always seemed taller. “I want something strong, and I’ll go through your backpack if I have to.”

“What the fuck,” Brock breathed. “What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking psycho? Shit.” Brock kept up the string of incredulous verbal abuse, but he did sit back down and dig around in his backpack.

“I’ve got a few Valium,” Brock muttered. “And the Adderall, like always. Couple barbiturates.”

“How many doses of barbiturates?”

“Like two or three?”

“How many Adderall?”

“More than enough. There’s like 50 of them, 20mg.”

Bucky did some quick calculations in his head and then nodded once. “Adderall then.”

“How many?”

“All of them.”

Brock turned back up to Bucky with twisted confusion on his face and said, “What the fuck are you going to do with 50 at once? You looking to use them regularly? I’ve never seen you use them even once.”

“Maybe I’m going to open up my own side business.”

“That’s not how--”

“I’m fucking with you. What? Can’t take a joke?”

Brock still looked unsure, even as he held the prescription bottle half pulled out of the bag. Bucky wondered what name was written on it, and then realized he’d find out in a minute. And, since Brock seemed to be having trouble understanding that money was about to be exchanged for goods and services - whether he liked it or not - Bucky reached down and took the pill bottle out of Brock’s hand.

“I think you’ll find what’s on the desk will more than cover,” Bucky smiled. Then he left the room.

Steve was right. He was an entitled asshole. He was also going to need to pick up a bottle of wine on the way home. Maybe two.

 

***

 

“I’m going to talk to him tonight,” Steve shrugged. “And, it’s both better and worse than it sounds, though I’m sure you’ve already made your opinion anyway.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sharon asked, pulling down her sunglasses so she could glare at Steve over them. They were sitting on a bench outside the building Sharon’s next class was in, drinking hot lattes and trying to sort out the mess Steve’s life had become.

“Just that you’re a very opinionated person, and that’s way I come to you for advice. I don’t need ‘oh you’ll figure it out’ right now. Lay it on me.”

“Then let me indulge,” Sharon said. “Do you think this relationship is past salvaging?”

“Gods, no. I think it’s stagnating, and I think we had a really bad fight, but I don’t think it’s over any edges. I don’t want it to be over any edges. I haven’t come to that point.”

“What point have you come to then?”

“The ‘something has to change’ point. Obviously what we’re doing isn’t working. Neither of us are enough to pull him off whatever cliff he’s hanging off of, and it’s hurting us both. We need to make a real decision. Take real steps over how to solve real problems. I’m tired of ‘we’ll see if we can do it this time’ and shit like that. It’s stop-gap, and I’m out of ‘gap’.”

“What if he’s not?” Sharon asked.

“Meaning?”

“What if you tell him this, and he says no? He thinks you’ll still both figure it out with how you’re doing it? What do you say then? Is this an ultimatum?”

“I don’t know about an ultimatum…” Steve mused, running his fingers over the white plastic lid on his coffee. “But maybe that’s just because I don’t like the connotations of the word. Maybe that’s exactly what this is.”

“Will you leave him, if he refuses to change anything? I don’t mean, ‘refuses to get better’, because I think we’re both informed enough to know how unfair and stupid it would be to ask that of him. I mean, if he refuses to set up safety nets. Refuses to apologize. Refuses to consider long term solutions with you.”

“Refuses to see a therapist,” Steve muttered.

“Is he refusing to see a therapist because he’s scared and tired or because he doesn’t want to get better yet?”

“I don’t fucking know. I honestly don’t. We had gotten better at talking, but then it all went back to hell.”

“Be that as it may,” Sharon continued, “you still haven’t answered my question. If Bucky refuses, absolutely refuses, to make the changes that you know he needs to make. To make rules and to talk with you about his concerns and fears and decisions. If he says that’s not on the table, will you leave him?”

Steve stared very hard at his coffee lid.

“Steve?” Sharon asked gently.

“Maybe he’ll leave me, and I won’t have to,” Steve half-heartedly joked. But the smile as he spoke was weak and wavery.

 

***

 

Bucky was ready to leave. He hadn’t let himself think things through very far, but he’d buckled down to step by step, and he wasn’t trying to stop. Step by step was doing wonders. Step by step was taking him places. He closed the door to the bathroom, sitting down on the tile floor with the bottle of pills and the open bottle of wine. He took a long drink from the open bottle and considered his situation.

It was an hour or so before noon. Steve wouldn’t be back for several hours. No required classes to make anyone check up on him. One bottle of wine. One bottle of pills. And suddenly the step-by-step stopped working as Bucky abruptly ran out of steps.

Well, not completely out of steps. There was one more step. It just...it seemed like there should be something else there. He took another mouthful of wine. He stood up. Shifted his weight back and forth a little. Opened the door to the bathroom and went out into the hall. He glanced down to the living room - _maybe Steve will come back early_ \- and continued on into his room. It was colder out here. It had been warming in the bathroom with the still air.

He absentmindedly shuffled his room around. Shoes went onto the shoe tree for the first time since he’d moved here. He wasn’t sure what clothes on the floor were clean and which were dirty, so he packed them all carefully away in the laundry basket. Straightened the papers on his desk. Pushed his trash down more compact so he could chuck in the bottles and plastic wrappings from around the room. He wished they had a good vacuum. The shitty one Steve had was worthless.

He could get a vacuum. He pulled his laptop out of his backpack and went to Amazon, clicked around a bit, and bought a nice expensive vacuum. He even clicked ‘it’s a gift’ on the delivery page. It asked him if he wanted to leave a note.

This was hilarious, and Bucky laughed at it for a long time. He declined to leave a note. He shut the laptop and put it back in his backpack. Went back into the bathroom and closed the door again. Took several mouthfuls of wine in a row. Chugged down to half a bottle.

“If it takes a bottle of wine to do it, you’re probably not supposed to do it,” he told the mirror. He couldn’t see himself from where he sat, but he could see the mirror itself. This was also funny, though not as funny as the vacuum suicide note.

Bucky drank the rest of the bottle like muscle practice. Drink while breathing carefully in and out of his nose, pausing to swallow every two breaths. Clockwork practice.

He ran out of wine.

He opened the pill bottle cap _push down and twist_ and began fishing the pills out of the container and laying them on the tile between him and the sink cabinets. Laid them out in a grid pattern. Like battleship. It took long enough that the wine hit him hard and he kept having more and more difficulty with the lines. The grid kept getting skewed, even when he tried to use the lines on the tile to help.

Still. Eventually there was a perfect white dot grid, even if that was only because Bucky was too drunk to tell the difference. He crossed his legs, and leaned back against the door behind him. He waited.

_What are you waiting for?_

_I’m waiting for Steve to come home._

He put his head in his hands and cried until his head hurt too much and he was too tired to cry anymore. He put each of the pills back in the bottle one by one. Row by row. He accidentally hit one with his shaking fingers, skittering it away to ricochet behind the toilet, and it wasn’t worth it to chase it.

When he got back to his room, he dropped the bottle onto the middle floor and was startled by how relatively clean the the room looked. He buried himself under the sheets and let the wine take him to sleep.

 

***

 

The strangest thing, the next morning, was the surreal nature of the rest of the world. Jane waved at him as her group passed him on their way to their scheduled SP. Bucky waved back. Clint gave him a soft smile but kept his distance, which felt like more than Bucky deserved anyway. The entire world churned away with imperative concentration, and Bucky marveled at how he could bring the entire thing to a halt with a few sentences and how it would continue as it was if he didn’t.

“Barnes,” Brock snapped, suddenly behind him. Bucky turned and fixed him with a cold stare.

“Barnes?” someone mocked from the other side of the room. “Are we in the army now?”

Brock responded by pulling Bucky a little further away and lowering his voice to say, “What the fuck was with yesterday? Beta blockers? And then...then all the--”

“Brock,” Bucky said.

“What?”

“Fuck off.”

He thought, for a moment, that he was going to have to physically wrench his arm out of Brock’s grasp, but he didn’t. Brock took the icy contemplation for only a few moments, before he let go, sneered, and marched away.

Bucky saw Clint, half-standing, tilt his head in concern, but Bucky just shook his head and smiled forlornly.

 

***

 

Bucky dropped his keys as he tried to get them in the door, sighed heavily as he contemplated them on the ground, and then bent to pick them up. The whole day at school had continued that surreal sensation he’d first gotten when he walked into the building, and he couldn’t even seem to shake it now that he was alone. It just seemed like there should be something else here. But everything had come to a standstill. Waiting.

Maybe he should talk to Steve. He’d gotten a few texts from him last night and through the morning, including one that made it clear that if Bucky was going to ignore Steve then they were through. Bucky knew he should be concerned about that. A part of him was concerned about that. But the other part, the larger louder part, was standing on the cusp of something. Something brand new, or maybe something very old, and he had to figure out what it was before he talked to Steve. It was right there, on the tip of his tongue. Like a kettle right before it whistles, or water when the first few bubbles promise it’s about to roil in turbulent boiling.

He reinserted his keys and successfully opened the door, pushed through it, and raised his eyebrows at Natasha’s figure sitting crossed legged on the couch. He let the door close carefully, so as not to disturb the neighbors.

“Yes?” he asked her.

A kettle, just about to boil, whistles low, in promise of the shriek to come.

Natasha stood and threw something at him in a sweeping gesture of her arm, like someone backhanding the person in front of them. The object she’d thrown sailed across the room and Bucky instinctively turned his body so it hit him in the back of the shoulder. He thought he understood the point - _not nice to have something thrown at you, is it?_ \- but realized he’d misjudged when he saw what she’s thrown was the pill bottle from the night before.

“I’m guessing that Kendall Blackwater is not an alias of yours in any government databases,” Natasha said.

Bucky shook his head no.

“I think,” she enunciated, “that it’s far past time for us to talk.”

And just like that, the thinning glass of surreality shattered into thin pieces at Bucky’s feet. The kettle whistle blew, and he knew what he'd been on the cusp of understanding all day.

“Let me go first,” he said. And something in the way he met her eye, drew her lips up into the tiniest smile.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Steve was struggling not to cry, and it was a losing battle. The weather was cold and miserable, reflecting his own feelings in a mirror trope that he did not appreciate. Bucky was ignoring him completely, again, and Steve was trying to figure out how to break up with someone over text, because if he saw Bucky face to face then he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. Because if Bucky was well enough that he’d deign for Steve to see him it would mean he was well enough to smile and promise pretty things that wouldn't happen but Steve would believe, and then they’d be right back here again.

The memory of Bucky pressed against him by the kitchen counter was warm against him, fleeting as it was.

Maybe they could stay friends. Friends and roommates. Turn it into a casual thing. Friends with benefits who live together.

He rolled his eyes at the thought of Sharon’s response to that, and eyed the series of steps he had to climb to get up to his apartment. He tried taking slow cold breaths, but decided to preemptively use his inhaler. He was not in the mood to sit on the stairs outside and catch what little breath he had.

_ You said that just because you knew it would get a reaction, and you don’t know how to deal with me when I don’t react! _

When had becoming an adult stopped being fun? Everything was just complicated layers and layers on top of each other. He couldn’t tell what was important anymore, or what would happen when he pulled what string. There were wants balanced with needs balanced with moral and social expectations. Emotional paradigms warring against the real world and neither of them giving a straight answer anyway. The “right thing to do” had never seemed so multifaceted. And what did that mean anyway? The right  _ moral _ thing to do, or the right  _ smart _ thing to do, or something else entirely?

He pushed through the apartment door, into the placebo warmth, and blinked slowly at Natasha and Bucky on the couch. Bucky was drinking tea, and Natasha was drinking coffee, and Steve let the door swing shut to slam behind him.

“Not ignoring you,” Bucky said. “I mean...I...I was, but I’m not anymore. I just wanted to have this discussion in person. Face to face.”

_ Dear god he’s breaking up with me, _ Steve’s heart stuttered, and he thought it was unfair that it could hurt so much when he’d just been searching for the courage to do the same. He lowered his book bag to the ground, releasing the weight pulling on the one shoulder and twisting his back. He glanced at Natasha for any information, but her face was a calm mask of indifference, even as she twisted around on the couch to look at him calmly.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Natasha and I were just talking about…” Bucky began, and then shrugged before he continued, “Well, about life, I guess. I know it sounds lame, but I’ve been having a pretty strange week. And not the normal kind of strange either, and I think there’s something I need to tell you. Mostly because Natasha will break my neck if I skip over this.”

Natasha made a noise in her throat that could only be agreement, before settling back against the couch cushions, untwisting so Steve could no longer see her face. He took that as his cue to come around into the circle of seating that was their living room. He did manage to put it off for a few moments, by locking the front door - which he never did - and toeing out of his shoes - which usually happened haphazardly someone between the kitchen and his bedroom - but he ended up standing by the coffee table eventually. He chose to sit on the floor by it, rather than struggle with either the unhelpful closeness of the couch or the emptiness of the other chair. He looked up at Bucky, expectant.

For his part, Bucky scooted to the very edge of the couch, leaning precariously forward over his knees, one heel tapping up and down with jerky speed. He was fiddling with something between his palms, rolling it back and forth, and it was the clattering noise that clued Steve in to ‘pill bottle’ and he immediately perked up.

“Did you go see someone?” he asked.

Bucky’s eyebrows drew together in confusion, and he glanced down to see what Steve had seen. His face smoothed into a blankness that rivaled even Natasha’s.

“No, Steve,” he said quietly. “That’s not what these are.” He snorted softly and added, “Although I guess I did have to go see someone to get them. Hell knows what those consequences will play out to be.”

Steve reached out his hand for the bottle and Bucky gave it obligingly. A quick inspection provided a stranger’s name, and a paired set of long words that meant nothing to Steve. He moved his gaze up to stare at Bucky, because he suspected those words did mean something to Bucky. Steve suspected they meant everything.

“What is this?” he asked.

“The remains of a suicide attempt,” Bucky said, like those words didn’t hold sway over how fast Steve’s heart beat and whether or not he had to think about where his inhaler was, in case this clawing tightness got any worse.

“When?” he asked thickly, and grit his teeth when Bucky craned his neck to look at the kitchen clock for an answer.

“Uh, about 42 hours ago? Give or take. I wasn’t...I wasn’t measuring time very well.”

“When you say ‘failed attempt’ do you mean--” Bucky cut him off with a grimace and an impatient shake of his head.

“Do you want the gritty details about how and when and why or do you want to talk about the what now?”

“I think that the ‘why’ is probably pretty important.” Everything Steve said was sounding like it originated outside of his head. Like his ears were stopped up. Like everything was underwater and somewhere else.

“Yeah, sure, I can see how you’d think that, but it’s actually not that relevant. The ‘why’ is just a symptom. The things that affect me or change the way I see the world are arbitrary. Yesterday it’s that I have to get the oil in my car changed. Today it’s that there’s a problem with my records and I need to go get another immunization. Tomorrow it’s that I haven’t done my laundry in two weeks and I’ve suddenly decided that makes me feel like shit, but none of it matters, Steve. It’s all just...hanging there. Ready to take my feet out from under me. I’m tired of standing on a shaky foundation. That’s what matters. Not the ‘why’.”

“I,” Steve started, and closed his mouth and shook his head once. His eyes were focused on the pill bottle in his hands, not because there was any more information to glean there, but because the idea of Bucky’s eyes was so much more formidable.

“What did I do wrong?” he asked quietly. And since when was that him? Where had the loud angry boy gone? The one who always spoke his mind.

_ The same place as every friend that that lost you. Every person you hurt too much and too suddenly with your rage. _

“Jeez,” Bucky sighed, leaning back and running his fingers through his hair. “This isn’t on you. Please understand that, Stevie. It’s not on you. It’s not on anybody. Or, if it is on anybody, it was put in place so long ago there’s no hope of finding its origin.”

“Your stepfather,” Steve said bitterly, but Bucky just made a weird face and shrugged one shoulder.

“Maybe,” he said, and Steve let it go.

“So what does this mean, then?” he asked instead, and the unspoken ‘for us’ weighed in the air between them. Bucky understood anyway.

“It’s probably not smart to keep doing this,” Bucky said slowly. “We should probably take a break, and I could focus on me and you could get settled with your last semester and figuring out what you want to do. And then, when we’ve proven we’re capable adults away from each other, we could talk about getting back together.

Steve felt like he was going to throw up, but he kept his expression bland as he nodded. It was a very responsible speech. Very adult, even as it shredded him.

“The thing is,” Bucky sighed, “I don’t want that at all. That sounds horrible. So what would you say if I counter-suggested that we do something stupid instead, and make another go of this right here. Right now.”

“You’re counter-suggesting your own suggestion?” Natasha intoned dryly from her place on the couch.

“Hush Nat,” Steve whispered, but somehow she heard him anyway, getting to her feet with an exaggerated groan.

“Why is everyone in my life a fucking moron?” she complained loudly, and then tousled both Steve’s and Bucky’s hair as she walked past them to the door. Just before she left completely, she turned, standing in the open doorway, and said, “You’re on probation, Barnes. This is your only warning.”

Then she was gone, leaving only the chill her utterly unveiled threat had created. Bucky reached out and ran his fingers over the ceramic of his mug of tea, and it wasn’t until he glanced at Steve out of the corner of his eye, that Steve suddenly realized that Bucky was waiting for his opinion on them staying together.

His first instinct was to fling himself across the brief empty space and into Bucky’s lap. The second was to realize the gravity of the situation.

“I’d need a couple of things,” Steve admitted, and had to twist his lips to hide his grin when Bucky perked up at even the possibility of a yes.

“Anything,” Bucky promised. “I’m betting I’m as sick of half-assing this shit as you are of getting it half-assed. What do you need?”

“A concrete failsafe,” Steve said. “And a FUBAR protocol.”

“Again, I’m game, but you’re going to have to explain what you mean.”

“I need at least one concrete change. It needs to be something enforceable. A rule or a decision that will keep things from getting this out of hand.”

“You mean seeing a doctor or something,” Bucky said, and Steve couldn’t have missed the hesitancy in the words for the world.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Steve capitulated. “I’m open to suggestions, but we can start small. Something like daily check-ins. Maybe, we have breakfast together every morning, and we talk about how we’re doing. And you take it seriously.”

“Every morning?”

“Every morning. No exceptions unless someone is dying or traveling.”

“What about if I have to be up early for school?”

“Then we’ll be up early to have breakfast.”

Bucky rubbed his hands over his face, stretching and distorting the shape of his skin, but Steve could tell it was a yes.

“Second,” he continued, “is the FUBAR protocol. We need a plan, a  _ concrete _ plan, for if things start to get really bad again.”

“Okay. I agree to both. Anything else?”

“You are never going back to your step-father’s house. Or, at the very least, you’re never going back there alone.”

“I am fucking on board there. Anything else?”

“No,” Steve said, savoring the word as he tried to think if there was anything else important enough to be part of an ultimation. “No. What about you?”

“As if,” Bucky snorted. “Get over here.”

Steve figured that was probably unfair, and that there were probably several things Bucky would be justified in demanding. But the explicit offer to close the space and jump into his still-my-boyfriend’s-lap-against-all-odds was too tempting.

 

***

 

The first breakfast was the worst for Bucky. It was fumbling and filled with backtracking to figure out if he was accidentally lying or not. It was all the tears and truths that Bucky had expected from the post-suicide-attempt conversation in the living room.

The second morning, Bucky came out into the kitchen to find Steve had removed the shade from the light fixture, so it was just a bare bulb, swinging ominously.

“So, soldier,” Steve said, in an over-stylized ‘evil henchman’ voice. “Are you ready to answer my questions.”

Bucky laughed so hard he had to sit down on the floor, and it was never quite as bad as the first time again.

 

***

 

Step one was moving from a threatening storm on the horizon to a very real daily battle. Steve had sat down with him and written out a schedule, and every time Bucky didn’t keep to it he had to face up to Steve and explain why. Whether it had really been too much work for one day, or if he’d slacked off, or if he’d had a “no energy to get out of bed” day and it was time to consider FUBAR protocols.

Bucky had only once had to explain that he’d slacked off because he was being lazy, not because he was having a Day, and Bucky was appalled to learn that Steve’s, “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed” face was hell on earth to behold.

None of that meant that the studying got any easier, but it did mean the studying got done. And when the studying had been done, the self-loathing was a lot quieter.

“Should we come up with a more detailed daily schedule?” Steve asked, toothbrush forgotten in his mouth as he eyed Bucky critically.

“You want to give me a curfew and a supper time?” Bucky laughed.

“I want to do anything you think will help.”

They passed on the curfew idea, but Bucky suspected that Steve kept it in his mind as a backup plan for a long time after that. And Bucky would be lying if he said the concept of that kind of control wasn’t just a little bit appealing.

 

***

 

Steve didn’t even knock as he shoved his way into Clint’s apartment. It was smaller and shittier than Steve’s, but without any roommates, and Steve had never been one to knock on friend’s doors when he’d been invited over. He was more a ‘help myself to the fridge’ kind of a person. Clint knew this about him, so there was really no one to blame when Steve emerged unannounced in Clint’s living room to find Clint crying in a curled ball on the floor.

“Oh god,” Steve gaped.

“Don’t look at me,” Clint gurgled, flinging his arm out toward Steve in a general denial of physical presence, the effect being somewhat diminished by the subsequent hiccuping sob.

“What the fuck happened?” Steve asked, going to his knees by Clint, despite the warning arm.

“I forgot you were coming over, that’s what happened,” Clint snuffled. “Leave me alone to die.”

“Do I need to call Natasha or something? Are you okay? Is  _ Natasha  _ okay?”

“Steve!” Clint yelled, wrenching himself up into sitting position. “Everything is fine. I’m fine! Go away.” He then drew in a deep breath and held it, cheeks ballooning out.

“Are you holding your breath to try and stop crying?” Steve asked, keeping the judgement off his face.

Clint let his breath out with an impatient noise and said, “No, I’m throwing a tantrum like a three year old.  _ Yes _ I’m holding my breath to stop crying. Go home, Steve.”

“Not fucking likely. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing! Nothing is wrong. I’m not losing my shit on the floor because something is wrong. It’s because everything is much!”

“Everything is much?”

“Yeah, everything is just...it’s much.” Clint waved his hands vaguely at the ceiling and slumped back over to lie on his side again. Steve kept silent and was eventually rewarded by Clint continuing, “Step’s just coming up so fast, and all of the practice tests I take go so badly. I feel stupid all the time. I miss regular classes. At least there I got to feel smart  _ sometimes _ , but there’s not any winning anymore. None. Just endless explanations about why you were wrong or why you could have been wrong. I’m just tired. I want to lie down and sleep for eighty years, but even that wouldn’t change the fact that I’ll take this test in four months two weeks and one day.”

“Do you think you won’t be ready for it?”

“I don’t know. That’s not even the point anymore. The point is that it’s there. It’s always there.  _ Watching  _ me or something. I just want to take a nap.”

“Take a nap then? I can entertain myself, and I can wake you up in twenty minutes or after whatever kind of power nap you crazy med school students take these days.”

“It’s not like that,” Clint said, struggling back up to sitting position. Steve moved the little bit it took to sit side-by-side, and he put his arm around Clint’s shoulder.

“How is it like, then?” he asked.

“I wasn’t kidding about the eighty year nap. But I wasn’t completely kidding about being fine, either. I’ll have a good cry. I’ll order a pizza and listen to music while I eat it. I’ll take the rest of the day off, and I’ll pretend I don’t wonder what my father would think about each and every one of those choices as I make them. And then, tomorrow, I’ll get up and get back to my schedule. Because that’s what this game is. Because I chose this, and I’m not ready to give up yet. Okay?”

“Okay,” Steve said, because what else was there to say to that.

“Hmm,” Clint hummed, contemplating. “You should come over and let me give you speeches about my convictions more often. I kinda feel better. I mean, I’m still ordering the pizza, but I’m feeling better.”

“Good,” Steve said. “Plus, you could feel on top of the world and ordering pizza would still be the best option.”

The rest of the afternoon was mild and uneventful, but when Steve kissed Bucky goodnight that night, it was just a little more gentle than usual.

 

***

 

“So when are you going to fuck me?” Bucky said, flipping closed the textbook in his lap.

“I’m covered in oils just now,” Steve responded.

“Is that supposed to be a reason you’re not fucking me? Because it seems to me like that would make everything go a little smoother.”

He was proud of the death glare that that one got him, but he did let the subject go for a whole ten minutes while Steve finished up what he was working on. And, as dry as Steve’s tone had been, he did switch to ‘finishing up’ without any further complaints.

As soon as the last lid was shut, Bucky was on his knees pressing a kiss to the tip of Steve’s nose, which Steve wrinkled in response. Bucky took that as a request to move down to his cheek and then lips. Little light pecks of kisses, accompanied by ridiculous smooching noises on each one.

“You’re in a good mood.”

Bucky humed, further encouraged by the fact that that sentence stirred up only the slightest sentiment of resentment.

“I’m the cat in the cream,” he murmured against Steve’s lips.

“And why is that?” Steve said, keeping his lips smooshed up against Bucky’s. It made the words come out semi-garbled, but not in any way that was unintelligible.

“Because I’m ninety-nine point ten percent sure that I’m about to successfully convince you to fuck me.”

“Aren’t you supposed to buy me a drink first?”

“Am I wrong?”

Steve pulled back and planted his own kiss on Bucky’s lips before smiling softly.

“You’re not wrong,” he said. 

 

***

 

“How much have you guessed at about my stepfather?” Bucky asked carefully, and he felt Steve grow still in his arms. Bucky was leaning back against the couch arms, pinning Steve between his legs so Steve could lay back on Bucky’s chest. It pressed their bodies together as a synchronized heartbeat. Bucky liked how difficult it made it for Steve to hide his reactions. It was nice, for once, to do the ambushing.

“That he’s a dick,” Steve snapped.

“He doesn’t think I’m worth shit,” Bucky said into Steve’s neck. “Even when I’m obedient he likes to tear me a new one. Likes setting me up for failure. I figured that one out a long time ago. That there’s no winning. It’s the Peter principle.”

“Whatever the fuck he thinks doesn’t matter,” Steve seethed. He was literally glaring at the opposite wall, even as Bucky laughed softly.

“Yes it does. Maybe it shouldn’t, but I’ve never had the luxury of should and should not.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Hush, I know what you meant.”

“What’s the Peter principle? You said it was the Peter principle; what does that mean? Is that a psych thing?”

“Not in the way you mean,” Bucky answered. “It’s more a social thing. It’s the idea that if someone is successful, they’re asked to do the next difficult thing. And if they succeed at that, then they’re given an even more difficult task. Eventually, they get promoted so far up the food chain, that they’re no longer capable of doing the job they have. Managers rise to the level of their own incompetence. So, if I do something difficult well, then my reward is something even more difficult to do.”

“That’s not the way parenting is supposed to work.”

“He hired a personal trainer and paid them an exorbitant amount of money to run me into the ground. Punitively.”

“What?” Steve exclaimed, and he struggled like he was trying to sit up and turn around. To look Bucky in the eye. Bucky held him more tightly, and Steve quickly capitulated into stillness.

“Yeah, he’d send me down for laps or illogical workout sessions if I was pissing him off. I don’t know if it was to keep me exhausted, or if it was his form of corporal punishment. An exotic alternative to beating my ass.”

“Did he do that, too?”

“No, that wasn’t his poison. The way he was...I wasn’t afraid to come home; I was afraid to sit quietly with him at breakfast. It was the things he said and didn’t say. The implications. It’s worse, sometimes, to have something implied. To be manipulated and forced to draw your own conclusions about your self worth. Or lack thereof.”

Steve jerked his head back to hit against Bucky’s chest. A sharp movement of frustration. A flare of anger like a fire wrapped up in Bucky’s arms, conveying warmth and the promise of life.

“He’d imply that I was fucking every guy that breathed. I think it was his socially acceptable way of condemning me for being gay.”

“That is  _ not  _ socially acceptable,” cried Steve, and he flailed his arms in front of him to try and get out of Bucky’s grip. “Seriously, why are you telling me this? I’m not saying don’t, but this is kind of sudden, and I’m trying not to get really pissed off at this guy, but I’m losing my shit here, Buck. I don’t wanna yell and stuff. I’m trying to keep my temper and ‘remain calm’ or whatever but--”

“Don’t,” Bucky ordered, pulling Steve even more tightly against him. Gods, he was so small. Fragile bird bones, but made of iron. Bucky’s had always been made of glass, for all their illusion of strength.

“I’m  _ trying  _ not to but--”

“No. I mean, ‘don’t try not to’. Go ahead and get mad. Rage.”

_ Rage, rage against the dying of the light. _

Steve stilled suddenly.

“Why?”

“Because I’ve never had the luxury? Or maybe because it makes you warm. I can feel your pulse. You vibrate when you’re this angry. Michael, angel of the Lord. Righteous fury. It tranfers to me. Kinetic energy in an elastic collision.”

Steve stroked Bucky’s hands gently with his fingertips, and Bucky tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“Okay,” Steve said slowly. “Tell me something else. Because I’ve got some choice words stored up about that congealed chunk of a carrion who’s trying pass itself off as your parental figure.”

 

***

 

“Did you know that the school has a kind of therapist for the students?” Bucky asked.

Steve froze where he was halfway to putting a dish in the dishwasher, hands covered in dripping soap suds because he refused to put anything in the dishwasher that wasn’t practically clean already. It wasn’t the dishwasher’s job to get the food off.

“I didn’t know that,” he eventually responded, trying to get right back into the dishes, even though he knew Bucky had caught his hesitation. Had sprung that sentence on him just to see the reaction.

“Yeah. They’re not full blown psychiatrists or anything. They can’t prescribe medication. They’re not technically doctors. They’re certified therapists.”

“Okay?”

“It means I’m not going to suddenly find myself under them on a psych rotation or anything. It’s not a risk to my career or education and shit.”

“Do you want to go?” Elbows deep in dishwater. Wrinkly fingers and wrists.

“No? I can’t imagine what they’d say that I don’t already know. No offence to them or anything. I just...I’ve had neuropsychology already. I took an exam on it.”

“Okay.”

“Besides, you make a great sounding board. You’re getting really good at it.”

“Thanks.”

“Like right now, considering how much effort you’re putting into that blank face instead of giving me your  _ freaking opinion _ on the matter like I’m clearly fishing for.”

Steve sighed heavily and turned around to look at Bucky, drying off his hands on the front of his tank top. The fabric plastered warm against his skin, even though he knew it would turn cold in a few moments.

“You already know my opinion on this, but we agreed it wouldn’t be an ultimatum. Do what you want to do.”

“I don’t think it will help.”

“Okay.”

“Maybe I should go just to see what it’s like, though. It does seem a little arrogant to just assume I know what’s going to happen. I mean, the school employs these people specifically to work with medical students. It’s not like I’m the first fucked up kid they’ve seen with neuropsych under their belt. And it’s one hundred percent super-anonymous.”

“Okay.”

“Goddammit, fuck you!”

“Okay.” This time with a grin.

 

***

 

“What would you say if I took a step prep class?” Bucky asked, and Steve looked up in confusion.

“I thought that’s what medical school was?” he said.

“No, like, we have this long period of time where we’re set loose on our own to study for the big exam. Not completely on our own, since there’s all kind of study guides and prep aids. It’s just...they don’t come with a schedule. They’re designed to be highly flexible.”

“Not your strong point,” Steve said bluntly.

“Yeah, my point exactly. I’m thinking about taking a scheduled class. There are even a few to chose from. They’re kind of expensive, but it’s not like that’s a huge problem right now.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“They’re looked down on.”

Steve cocked his head in silent confusion.

“I mean, by the student body. Sometimes even by the faculty. People don’t put a lot of faith in them, or they think it’s a show of weakness, as though you should have the self-discipline all by yourself. Taking a prep course is some kind of social faux pas. If it’s done, it’s done in silence and in secret.”

“That is the stupidest fucking things I’ve ever heard,” Steve snorted. “Do you wanna take a prep course?”

“Yeah. They come with really rigid schedules.”

“Then take the prep course for the love of everything. Social faux pas, my ass.” He rolled his eyes. “If someone gives you shit for it, tell me, and I’ll punch them in the dick. Hell, tell Clint, and Natasha will punch them in the dick. More bang for your buck.”

 

***

 

The real end result of the prep course discussion was less violent and more beneficial than that. Bucky brought it up with Clint while they were hanging around waiting for a standardized patient. Brock hadn’t shown up yet, and Jane was down the hall, consulting another student on a practice question. She’d taken missing it personally.

“Like those DIT courses?” Clint asked, around a mouthful of powerbar.

“Yeah,” Bucky admitted, scratching the back of his head with one hand.

“Dude, if you’ve got the cash, go for it. I wish I could take one.”

“You?” Bucky asked, incredulous. “You want to take one? You hate structure. You...you fucking  _ hate _ structure.”

“Yeah, but do you know what I hate even more? Freaking the fuck out every day that maybe I’m doing the wrong thing. I’ve got a lot to prove here, ya know? No one thought I’d make it this far.”

“I did,” Bucky said quickly. “I never thought for a second you weren’t going all the way through this hell. All the way out to the other side.”

Clint smiled sadly. “Thanks for that.”

“I should have said it before,” Bucky pushed on, realizing the truth of it in epiphany. “I know Steve wasn’t the only person I’ve kinda been a dick to. I should have said it before. I always admired the energy you threw at this stuff. Like heating a knife before trying to cut cold butter. I was trying to brute force it, but you were trying it smart.”

Clint gave him a weird look, but nodded once and his repeated, “Thanks,” sounded more genuine, if a little amused. Then he added, “Did you know I didn’t graduate high school? Technically. I got my GED.”

“You got into medical school with a GED?” Bucky gaped. “What the everliving fuck did you say on your interview?”

“They actually didn’t care that much about high school,” Clint shrugged. “I’m just trying to explain to you where my life started at. When I say that no one was rooting for me, I mean it. No one was rooting for me to get here. I did this myself.”

“Do you really want to take a prep course?” Bucky asked.

“Yeah, of course but-”

“I’ll pay for it,” Bucky interrupted. “We can take it together.”

“Bucky--”

“No, shit, sorry. We don’t have to take it together. I’ll still pay for it. It’s not a conditional offer or anything.”

“Bucky, that’s really nice of you, but I’m not going to let you shell out hundreds of dollars just so I can get some peace of mind and a slight bump to my score.”

“Think of it as the opening move in my apology. I miss being your friend. We were friends in first year, I think. Weren’t we?”

“Yeah, but--”

“Please? Clint, I have maybe two friends in total, and a ton of money. This isn’t even a hard sell for me. You say you got here all on your own, so chalk it up to the world owing you one.”

“I’m not going to let you try and buy my friendship.”

“I”m not buying your friendship,” Bucky pushed eagerly, suddenly grinning wildly. “I’m buying your forgiveness. I’ll even buy you flowers, too. Or chocolates. Come on! This is a time honored tradition. Let me say ‘I’m sorry’ with money. We can work on the friendship part afterward. You know where a great place to do that would be?”

“A great place to work on our friendship? Um, I don’t know. Where?”

“A prep class!”

 

***

 

Bucky considered it a victory when Clint gave in and they both signed up for a step class, sprawled on the floor in Clint’s apartment. He didn’t realize how much of a victory it was until he found a handwritten note tucked into his FirstAid book, in pace of his usual bookmark. It read, “Congrats, Barnes. Your ‘only warning’ probation has been rescinded to a less strict form of probation.”

 

***

 

The second victory of that week was Bucky’s retake for his failed class. He didn’t tell anyone when he was taking it, because it didn’t seem to have a place in his new life. A final farewell to an old type of life.

He wasn’t nervous when he turned it in, and he wasn’t surprised when he got the congratulatory email for passing. He wasn’t even particularly happy or excited over it. It was just smooth water, passing over smooth stones. Long gone and washed away down the river.

 

***

 

Bucky liked the swing of things. He liked to study on the floor while Steve drew. He liked to walk around outside with him when they needed breaks. He liked waking up at the same time as Steve. He like nasty-tasting morning kisses that ended in minty toothpaste and repeated attempts.

He liked sitting in class next to Clint. He liked Clint’s expression when Bucky showed up with a bouquet of apology flowers on the first day. He liked the day they snuck Steve in just to see if the instructor had memorized the faces enough to call them on it. He liked the way his heart went into his mouth when they risked it. He liked that they didn’t get caught, and he liked that he wouldn’t have cared if they had. He liked how confused the class made Steve, and how many times Steve called him smart for being able to follow it. He liked feeling smart again.

He liked kissing Steve. Hot and braced above him. Sheets pushed into haphazard and hands uncontent to stay in one place for very long. It seemed impossible to stay still, rocking and hungry. He liked the way Steve’s eyes screwed up when he came and the way he would unexpectedly kiss Bucky’s shoulder in the kitchen when they were making breakfast.

He didn’t like everything, though. He still felt his stomach sink every time his phone rang, no matter who it actually turned out to be. Steve still caught him in self-deprecating speech, and he still toyed with the idea of the therapist. He’d thrown out all the pills, but he still got overwhelmed enough to long for a more permanent silence, however costly. His temper still flared without warning, like a on-off light switch.

But they had their FUBAR protocols, and all it ever took was a few mumbled sentences from Bucky and the day’s schedule changed. Steve would email his professor - Bucky suspected he lied through his teeth in those emails, but he never asked - and they’d play a softer script. Sometimes it was cuddling on the couch with warm drinks and a movie. Sometimes it was long drives into the country and around in the middle of nowhere. Loud music. No talking. And sometimes it was sitting on the floor of the kitchen eating cold pancakes and drinking wine while Bucky cried and talked about nonsense while Steve listened. The lines changed, but the play stayed the same, and Steve was getting very good at figuring out which variation was being called for.

Bucky’s favorite and least favorite was for when he was the worst off. Couldn’t get out of bed even though there never seemed to be a reason for why. On those days, Steve would crawl over him and kiss him gently. Anywhere and everywhere, with shudder-inducing words of praise pressed by his lips into Bucky’s skin.

“You work so hard. When setbacks take your feet out from under you, you crawl for as long as it takes to stand back up.”

“So empathetic. You see what people are meaning to say, even if it’s not the words coming out of their mouths. You’re paying attention, in a world where few are.”

“Keeping all of your promises to me. Even though they’re hard. You make me feel so warm. Ready for a fight, but somehow without the violence. Being with you is like screaming in elation out a speeding car window.”

Bucky kept thinking Steve would run out of things to praise but, even though there were some repetitions - “Beautiful. Strong. Perfect. Mine.” - there were always new ones. Steve would keep it up until Bucky started crying, calling Steve an idiot and wrong and full of shit. But once he’d started crying, the apathy sunk through the puncture net of his psyche. And once the apathy had drained away, the rest of his emotions would return like the inevitable tide.

 

***

 

“What?” Steve asked around a mouthful of cereal. Bucky had been sorting through the mail and, after opening a unique-looking envelope, he’d gone very still, eyes glued to the cardstock in front of him. At Steve’s question, however, he handed it over.

It was an invitation and, as Steve kept reading, he felt his face turn into a sneer. It was from Bucky’s step-father. An invitation to a party to celebrate his son passing second year and moving into clinical rotations.

“His idea of telling you about this was to send an invitation?” Steve spat.

Bucky handed him a second piece of paper that had also been tucked inside the envelope. It was a handwritten note that read,  _ With you, one should celebrate the little victories. Otherwise, one might not have anything to celebrate at all. _

“Subtle,” Steve said dryly. He was calming himself by imagining beating the guy with a chair. It wasn’t very helpful, but it was entertaining.

“What’s he going to do if I fail step one?” Bucky sighed, returning to his breakfast. “Have a retraction party?”

“He can practice deep sea diving without a helmet for all I care,” Steve snapped. “You’re not going to this, are you?”

Bucky made a face and said, “I don’t want to. Honestly, I don’t. But it’s only for one evening, and the consequences for not attending might be...unpleasant.”

“It’s the day of my graduation,” Steve said, glancing back at the invitation.

“What?”

“This party. It’s on my graduation day. You can’t make it to both.”

“Fucking bastard,” Bucky breathed.

“You think he did it on purpose?”

“Uh, everything with Alexander is on purpose. Everything.” He sat back and rubbed his hands over his face.

“Okay then. Not to be that Pushy Boyfriend, but...you really can’t make it to both, so...” He considered adding that Bucky had promised to avoid his old home as a condition of their continuing relationship, but he didn’t think it was the right play. Instead, he just watched Bucky chew on his lip and stare at the table.

“Well,” Bucky said eventually. “Then I guess I better send him a nice rejection letter. I mean, it’s rude not to RSVP to something like this.” He grinned slowly. “I’m thinking something along the lines of, ‘eat my entire ass, you fucking prick’. What do you think?”

“Excellent choice,” Steve intoned, struggling to keep his answering grin under control. “Very professional.”

“What can I say?” Bucky laughed. “I’m a professional kind of guy.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

“I _know_ what CBT is,” Bucky announced, without preamble, as he flung himself into the apartment, and Steve choked on his coffee.

“You...you didn’t before?” Steve asked. It felt inadequate, somehow, but he couldn’t come up with anything more potent to say.

“No, I knew before,” Bucky scoffed, wrangling himself out of his rain jacket. “Of course I knew what it was before; that’s the problem! People talking to me like I don’t know what it is.” He sounded so pissed off, and Steve tried to fish for any precedent to this conversation.

“Who was trying to tell you about...about CBT?” he asked cautiously.

“The therapist! I went to see the school-provided therapist today, and let me tell you I didn’t learn _shit._ ”

“Why the fuck was your therapist talking to you about CBT!” Steve exclaimed. “What the fuck kind of therapist...I mean, I’m all for progressive, but that seems unprofessional. At _least_ for a first meeting.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Bucky asked blankly, standing just inside the kitchen and looking down in confusion at where Steve was still seated at the kitchen table, coffee grasped all the more desperately in his hands.

Steve opened and closed his mouth, shuffled through his potential responses, and took the coward's way out for the first time in a long time.

“Nothing,” he announced.

It didn’t work. Bucky kept looking at him, calculating, and he got it eventually. His face twisted and then reddened.

“Cognitive behavioral therapy!” he exclaimed. “Oh my god...you...you _gutter_ mind, what the hell?”

“What was I supposed to think?” Steve pouted, slumping down further in the chair. “You’re the one who sprung this conversation sans context. Sue me. You’re the one who has the gutter mind. This wasn’t my fault.”

“Aw, did I hurt your feelings?” Bucky simpered. He crossed the space between them and laid a sloppy kiss on Steve’s forehead. “Here I’ll make it up to you.” Sloppier kisses on his eyelid and cheek. “Poor Steve.”

Steve shoved Bucky away when the kisses got too wet to be anything but obnoxious, but he was laughing. Bucky leaned against Steve’s arms even more heavily, making loud smacking noises with his lips and tongue. His feet slid back against the tile floor, and he almost went down in a heap before he caught his balance and made another lunge for Steve’s face.

“So you went to see a school therapist?” Steve shouted, locking his arms to hold Bucky at arm’s length and trying to introduce a distraction. Bucky responded by ducking his head and licking Steve’s hand messily. Steve counter-responded by releasing his arms, and Bucky fell forward with an undignified flop, half onto Steve’s legs and half onto the floor, causing both of them to laugh harder than was practical for an attempted conversation.

Eventually however, Bucky wiped the tears from his eyes and answered the question.

“I did, but I don’t know what it got me.”

“You seem to be in a good mood. I mean, really.” Steve gestured to the situation.

“I guess. I just...I expected her to talk about childhood trauma. She just wanted to talk about continuously re-framing thoughts. Cognitive behavioral therapy. Identify destructive behaviors in my life. I know that shit. I’ve tested over that shit.”

“Yeah, but do you ever do it?”

Bucky grunted in both amusement and acknowledgement of the point and shrugged.

“Did she give any tips on re-framing?”

“We talked about some. I’ve got worksheets. Literal worksheets, like an elementary school student. Homework. They’re supposed to force me to think a certain way for a set period of time. I’m supposed to show her I did them when I see her again in two weeks.”

“That sounds like it could be helpful if you take it seriously.”

“Yeah, more homework is exactly what I need,” Bucky said dryly, rolling his eyes.

Steve decided to let it go. Bucky had already said he was seeing her again in two weeks.

 

***

 

Bucky did not end up putting any four lettered words in the refusal RSVP for his stepfather’s party. Instead, he dug through his email archives and found one of his rejection letters from another medical school he’d applied to. He used it as a template.

 

Dear Alexander Pierce,

We have received your proposal and regret to inform you that, after much consideration, attendance does not appear to be possible at this time. Statistical probability informs us that you are likely a skilled and competent individual, based on whatever success you do have. However, we do not feel you to be a good fit in our lives at this time. Please consider making some life changes and applying again never.

Sincerely

Not Your Son, B. Barnes

 

When Steve proofread it, he grinned and bounced around the room, repeating “Perfect” more times than was probably socially acceptable.

Bucky spent the following afternoon moving money out of those bank accounts technically supervised by his stepfather and into his own personal accounts. Steve had had to walk him through opening his own personal bank account, but he hadn’t been pedantic about it at all.

Bucky was kind of surprised that the transfers didn’t set off any alerts and didn’t required any outside authorization. He _was_ the primary account holder, but Bucky had expected Alexander to have turned more cautious after Anna’s disappearing act.

Then again, Anna had been building up withdrawals over nearly a year, in order to preserve the element of surprise. And Bucky had never been the type to openly defy.

“When hubris isn’t working against you, it’s a beautiful thing,” Steve announced, and Bucky was forced to agree.

 

***

 

“Is this wrong?” Clint asked, shoving his laptop at Bucky.

“I don’t know why you’re asking me,” Bucky muttered, but he took the laptop obligingly, if only so it wouldn’t slide off the couch. He was mildly surprised to see it wasn’t a step question bank, or even a yahoo answers explanation, but rather a plain word document with text paragraphs and a few diagrams.

“What is this?” he asked Clint.

“It’s that study guide that Brock and Jack sent out for the biochemistry section of First Aid. It’s got some really good tips, but...I think there are some mistakes. Some of them with big deal consequences.”

“They’re only human,” Bucky mumbled, scanning the page.

“Double check it with me?” Clint asked.

“It’s fifty pages long!”

“It’s not that long. Just...double check it with me. I’ve got a feeling.”

Which meant Bucky had no choice but to capitulate. He and Clint spent the next hours going through every enzyme, pathway, prioritization, and disease relevance. They double-checked spelling, related pharmacology, and even the FYI bits in parenthesis. After the first few pages, Bucky sent off a text to Steve that he was going to be at Clint’s longer than anticipated. In the first four pages, they found eleven mistakes.

“These are really subtle,” Clint said.

“They’re really well hidden,” Bucky corrected.

The grand total was forty-three errors, and Bucky wouldn’t even bet it was all of them.

“Was this on purpose?” Clint asked, and Bucky could see how desperately he wanted the answer to be no, but he smiled grimly in response. Clint bit the inside of this cheek and nodded to himself a couple of times.

“I’m going to send them an email,” Clint announced. “Let’s just see what they say. Even if it’s on purpose...people do stupid shit all the time. Maybe they’ll take it back.”

“People do stupid shit all the time,” Bucky agreed slowly. “But this is the kind of stupid shit that gets people killed. Maybe not directly but...Clint, we’re taking this knowledge into third year. We’re going to be _practicing medicine_ with this. On real people.”

Clint rubbed his face with both his hands, up and down, pulling the skin into distortion.

“I know,” he sighed. “I know. I just...gods, I’m so tired of people being dicks.”

 

***

 

Brock responded “fuck off and mind your own business.” Jack did not respond at all.

“You need to do something,” Steve urged. Bucky was lying on the couch, Clint was lying on the floor, and Steve was pacing around and waving his arms.

“Like what?” Bucky asked.

“Like turn them in!” Steve exclaimed. “This isn’t something abstract like being a generic asshole.”

“Or dealing illegal substances out of a twenty dollar backpack from Office Depot?” Bucky commented dryly. Clint hummed in response.

“Okay, but you said you couldn’t turn him in for that because it would make the rest of the class work against you. Isolate you.”

“Isolation is a death sentence in the medical world,” Clint intoned from the floor.

“Yeah, but wouldn’t this work as an exception?” Steve pressed eagerly. He re-crossed the room and perched on the edge of the couch by Bucky’s stomach. “You can spin this as protecting the interests of the group. This isn’t a few people ‘having fun’ or whatever they call it. This is directly affecting people’s grades. Wouldn’t that get a pass?”

Bucky thought about it, glanced at Clint, and pursed his lips.

“Potentially,” Clint said.

“Maybe if we go directly to the Dean,” Bucky said. “We can sidestep the whole issue by declaring that we want to stay anonymous. We could stay anonymous for something like this. It’s just showing emails, and those emails went out to the whole school. No reason to directly suspect us.”

“Or that!” Steve exclaimed, jumping back up from where he’d sat. “Do it anonymously. Fine.”

“You really want these guys in trouble,” Clint laughed.

“I want them fucking expelled,” Steve snapped.

Bucky made a noise at that, sitting up and covering his face with his hands.

“Hey,” Steve soothed, quickly returning to his perch on the edge of the couch. “There need to be consequences for these actions.”

“You’re just mad because they treat me like shit. Being a shitty person isn’t a good enough reason to be kicked out of medical school.”

“Disagree!” Clint exclaimed, but Bucky didn’t look up.

“I also disagree,” Steve said, speaking more quietly than he’d had since hearing the extent of the situation.

“They’re brilliant,” Bucky protested, uncovering his face and looking Steve in the eye. “They’ll save lives. They’ll be good doctors.”

“I really don’t think they will,” Steve said. He looked Bucky right back in the eye as he said, and if he was lying then he was a better liar than Bucky would ever hope to be, even with all his practice.

“Besides,” Steve added, “it’s not like you’ll be deciding what happens to them. You’re just going to provide knowledge about the existence of potentially dangerous behavior. What happens next is on the administration.”

“Fine,” Bucky capitulated. “Okay, fine.”

 

***

 

Bucky switched his cell phone plan. He couldn’t remove his current phone from his step-father’s contract, so he started over from scratch.. He had to get a new number, which was a pain in the ass, but it was cleansing, too. Especially because the first thing he did was give the new contact information to Steve. For a few blissful hours, Steve was the only person in the world who knew how to contact him.

 

***

 

Bucky and Clint were supposed to go and speak to the Dean of Students on Monday afternoon. They’d made an appointment. Or, Clint had made the appointment, and they figured that was sufficient. The man was unlikely to kick Bucky out just because he wasn’t officially on The Schedule.

Unfortunately, Sunday night was not good for Bucky. He felt tired too early, but resented going to bed. Something felt uncomfortable under his skin. He kept thinking about his upcoming exam, and jerking awake at the little rushes of adrenaline.

“You okay?” Steve asked. But he was half asleep, and Bucky was still hoping maybe he was just tired, so he claimed his goodnight kiss with a murmured, “I’m fine.”

Then he woke up on Monday morning a few minutes before his alarm went off. He checked his phone, checked the time, contemplated his phone, contemplated the time, and wondered whether or not medical school has been a giant fucking waste of life and money. He wondered how he’d react the first time his mistakes killed someone. He wondered if his car would start this morning. It had been slow to start lately. He should also fill his tires with air since the weather was changing.

By the time Steve’s alarm went off, Bucky had shuffled back down in between the blankets and drifted in and out of sleep for the better part of two hours.

“Not going to class today?” Steve asked groggily, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

“FUBAR,” Bucky mumbled weakly, from underneath the blankets.

“Oh,” Steve responded. “Oh, shit. Okay.” He placed a tentative hand on Bucky’s bare shoulder. “Is it a touching day or a no touching day?”

“Touching. I don’t want to be cold.”

“Okay, hang on.” Steve shoved and pushed at the covers, tucking them in around Bucky’s body, swaddling him, and then kicked his own way out of the sheets. He stumbled around the room for a few moments, shuffling items, and then slipped back into bed. He pulled the sheets out from where they were trapped under Bucky’s body, and scooted closer.

“Sweatshirt,” he announced.

Bucky endured the cold of the bare air for the few seconds it took Steve to shove the thick fabric over his head. He had a moment of nausea when his arms didn’t want to go into the sleeves, but it was replaced with relief when they finally pushed through. He quickly withdrew back in under the covers.

Steve moved around on the bed for a bit, probably texting, and then he too shuffled down under the covers. He plastered himself against Bucky’s back, wrapping his arms around and turning himself into the big spoon.

“You don’t have to go to school?” Bucky asked.

Steve laughed against Bucky’s neck and shook his head. “Nah, Sharon will cover for me. If I need to, I’ll send some emails. Make some really good apologies. Honestly, we’re so close to the end of the whole four year bullshit, that we’re mostly on our own. It’s ‘final project’ this and ‘senior compilation’ that. I get my work done. No one has any reason to levy complaint against me.”

“It’s Monday,” Bucky pushed. “You have an art history class. You have to be at that one.”

“You trying to get rid of me?”

Bucky shook his head, tired of the discussion. He thrashed his arms free, pulled the hood of the sweatshirt up over his head, and reburied his arms in the layers of fabric.

“You going to get too hot?” Steve asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

“No.”

“Do you mind if I listen to a podcast with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let's try it then,” Steve decided.

It was only a few moments later that Bucky felt a headphone being pushed into one of his ears. Steve, presumably wearing the other one, murmured, “Sleep or listen or daydream. No pressure.” Then he hit play.

Bucky didn’t listen to most of the broadcast. He did mentally tune in a few times, when Steve would laugh hard enough that Bucky could feel it vibrating through them both. He slept some too, or at least he felt like he slept. At the very least he drifted enough to lose a few chunks of time.

“Shower time,” Steve announced, and Bucky startled out of whatever form of space he’d been in.

“Don’t wanna,” Bucky insisted. But it was different from the “do not want” of a few hours ago. He was more awake. And Steve had a point about all the layers. He was sweaty. Dirty.

“Scale of one to five,” Steve demanded, and Bucky sighed heavily.

“Three,” he admitted.

“Then I’m overruling. I’ll go turn the water on. It’ll be hot before you get anywhere near it.”

“Gonna join me?”

“See, now I _know_ you’re feeling better.”

 

***

 

Steve made it to his art history class, but Bucky missed his meeting. He did have time to text Clint and warn him, which made him feel like the most incompetent moron and a let down of a friend, but Clint assured him that he hadn’t even headed to campus yet. He expressed concern for Bucky missing the prep class, but he also promised to email all notes he'd taken.

 _We’ll reschedule the meeting for next week_ Clint promised.

_You can’t just skip a scheduled meeting. It’s an insult_

_Bullshit. I’ll just email that I’m vomiting into the toilet. He won’t want me anywhere near him._

_You sure you don’t want to just go by yourself?_

_I refuse to do this without you, fuck that_

 

***

 

“Do you know what brought it on?” Steve asked gently.

Bucky shook his head.

“I thought maybe it was the stress of ratting on Brock and Jack, but maybe not. It fluctuated all day, even after we moved the meeting. Maybe because I took most of the weekend off. Didn’t get anything done.”

“Okay, so next time we take a school break for the weekend, we’ll make sure we do something else productive, too. Do you think that’ll help?”

Bucky shrugged again.

 

***

 

“And you think this was on purpose?” the Dean confirmed, staring down at the pages that Bucky had helpfully printed out. He’d gone for the dramatic and circled every lie in red ink. He was standing awkwardly behind where Clint was sitting across from the big intimidating desk.

“We helpfully pointed out the errors and got told to mind our own business,” Clint said, holding out his phone so the email could clearly be read.

The Dean glanced over it, leaned back in his chair, and sighed heavily.

“Well, shit,” he said, and even Clint raised an eyebrow at the suddenly absent professionalism.

 

***

 

“He doesn’t move,” Sharon said.

Steve glanced up to try and understand the statement, and found her staring with narrowed eyes at where Bucky and his study materials sprawled across the floor. He had his headphones in - drowning out any potential sound - and his back to both of them - removing any potential visual distractions. And, as Sharon had so succinctly pointed out, he wasn’t moving. He was sitting cross-legged, and was bending in half over his legs, pressing his chest into his ankles to put his face right in the textbook. He didn’t even look like he was breathing.

Steve put down his paintbrush and carefully wiped his hands on a paper towel before crossing the living room.

“Is that not normal?” Sharon asked.

“I don’t know. Usually he has trouble focusing so, I don’t know.”

Steve touched Bucky’s shoulder lightly and Bucky just about went through the roof. He jerked violently and ripped his headphones out of his ears.

“For the love of god,” he panted. “What the fuck, I...Steve?”

“Sorry,” Steve said, putting both his hands up, palms out. “Didn’t mean to startle you. You just...you hadn’t moved in a while. Are you okay?”

Bucky blinked for a moment, and then laughed.

“Yeah, actually,” he said. “I’m doing really well. Getting shit done. It’s a good day.”

Steve felt himself grin, reflecting Bucky’s own stretching smile.

“Good. I’m glad. Good days are...good.”

“Master of poetry, you,” Bucky snorted, but neither of their smiles faded.

 

***

 

“Apparently he didn’t even try to defend himself,” a girl behind Bucky said. He was waiting in line to pay for his lunch since he was staying at the school to study today. Clint had already headed out, but Steve was stuck all day in mandatory events and “I have to focus and get this done”s, so Bucky was attempting to be productive on his own power.

“What kind of moron,” the girl’s friend laughed, and Bucky winced at the insult, regardless of the lack of context.

“I know!” the first girl exclaimed. “If I’m going to be stupid enough to try and sabotage other classmates, I’d at least claim ignorance. The only reason they got him on anything is because he straight up confessed.”

Bucky’s heart dropped into his stomach, and his appetite shriveled. He felt frozen in place.

“I heard it wasn’t a confession,” a male voice added. “I heard he was bragging. He even left the meeting bragging. Saying that this was the way real competition worked. Talking about the state of the world, and how if you couldn’t figure out how to take care of yourself then you didn’t deserve to do well.”

“How the hell does someone like that get through the entrance interview? With a guy like that, it’s only a matter of time before a patient gets killed.”

Bucky paid for his lunch and was forced to walk away.

 

***

 

Jack claimed ignorance. No one knew if that was a lie or not - there was certainly speculation on either side - but whether he lied through his teeth or just hadn’t cared enough to be concerned by Clint’s warning, he walked away from his meeting.

Brock did not have any such good sense.

“Suspended?” Bucky gaped.

“Yep,” Jane crowed. “All that work from second year, wasted. That down payment he made for the step exam? Six hundred dollars down the drain, plus one embarrassing as hell phone call to the scheduling center.”

“Suspended,” Bucky repeated.

“I heard it was originally a full expulsion, but politics, you know. I’m sure you know, actually. Still, take the victories you can get.”

“I’ve never imagined....what’s third year going to be like without him? I’ve never even thought about it. He was just...always there.”

“I feel sorry for the poor next year who’ll have to deal with him now. Maybe we should send some warning emails.”

“That might be a little low class,” Bucky protested.

“If you say so,” Jane shrugged. “Still, he’s got one strike now. If he screws up again, he might actually be out.”

“He probably won’t be that stupid.”

“If you’d have asked me a few weeks ago, I’d have said he wasn’t stupid enough to pull what he already did. Place no limits on the arrogance of men. No personal offense meant.”

“None taken.”

 

***

 

Steve took Bucky thrift store shopping.

“How do I look?” Steve posited, emerging from the dressing room in a lime green and aqua blue miniskirt, completed with a lime green tank top. A completely different shade of lime green from the skirt, of course.

“You’re going to get us kicked out,” Bucky snorted, reaching out to tug demonstratively at the boxers showing underneath the miniskirt.

“You’re the one who’s going to get us kicked out,” Steve countered, dancing back away from Bucky’s fingers.

“Go change!”

Bucky shoved Steve roughly back into the changing room. He turned and flashed a hopefully charming smile at a nearby mother, child in her arms. He wasn’t sure whether he pulled it off or if she hadn’t been offended in the first place, but she didn’t glare at least. He was counting it as a win.

The next time Steve emerged it was slightly better. Black skinny jeans were always a plus, especially with how tempting it was for Bucky to shove his hands down into the back pockets. He fought the urge, and nodded in reluctant approval.

“Jeans yes,” he said. “Sequined tank top, no. Don’t you ever wear anything that isn’t a tank top?”

“I just get paint all over the sleeves of anything else,” Steve shrugged, admiring himself into the dressing room mirror.

“You get paint on your tank tops, too.”

“Yeah, but that’s less a fashion tragedy and more a social statement.”

“God forbid I get in the way of you and your social statements,” Bucky sighed. “Are you actually looking for anything in particular here, or should I go back to doing my flashcards and wait for you to tire yourself out?”

“You don’t come to a thrift store looking for something in particular,” Steve scoffed. “You come for the experience. Go look around. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll even quiz you with your flashcards through the door while you change.”

“Pass,” Bucky muttered, already opening his flashcard app himself. He was interrupted by a miniskirt to the face.

“At least put that on so I can see,” Steve smirked, prompting Bucky to glance around anxiously, judging people’s reactions.

“There’s no way it fits around my waist,” he mumbled, and tossed it back to Steve.

“No way it fits around your ass you mean.”

“Steve!”

“It’s a compliment. It’s a nice ass.”

“Shut up!”

“Lots of muscle,” Steve continued, ducking back into the dressing room and closing the door when it looked like Bucky was about to physically intervene. “More than one handful. I like it.”

“I’m leaving,” Bucky announced.

He couldn’t actually leave, for multiple reasons, although the fact that Steve had the car keys was an important one. Instead, he took Steve’s suggestion and started searching through the racks of clothing. Some of it seemed to be organized by size, some by color, and some by whim of whoever had picked the item up last, so he approached it with the same haphazard organization, lazily inspecting and setting back.

Eventually Steve finished and wandered over to join him, a few items of clothing draped over his arm. Both the skinny jeans and the sequined top were included. It was a sharp contrast to the few professional-esque items Bucky had gathered.

“Have you ever been to an interview?” he asked suddenly, and Steve looked up in surprise.

“Sort of,” he answered. “Technically I had to convince the art school that I was serious, but most of that was me showing off my portfolio.”

“What did you wear?”

“Is that what this was about?” Steve laughed. “I don’t remember, but I’m sure it was monochromatic and no longer in my closet. I can play by the rules when I need to, but that doesn’t mean it’ll ever be my status quo.”

Bucky felt his eyebrows draw together.

“Do you think I dress boring?” he asked.

“I think you dress like you have to,” Steve shrugged. “Med school isn’t the same as art school, and I know it.”

“But even when we go out--”

Steve hip-checked him and scoffed, “Stop. It’s not important to me. You could wear the most interesting outfits in the world and it wouldn’t change the fact that what I’m obsessed with is underneath.”

“Was that a sex joke?” Bucky asked, rolling his eyes.

“Yes and no. I am serious about preferring _you_ , though. The rest is just packaging. After a first impression, I start to consider it irrelevant.”

Bucky nodded in recognition of the claim, but he let his fingers linger over a lime green t-shirt. It had something written on it in swooping Arabic letters, and it definitely would have matched the miniskirt Steve had been wearing.

“Speaking of interviews...” Steve began, sliding hangers along the bar, inspecting items in sequence.

“Yes?”

“I may have a job offer in the near future. I’ve at least got an interview lined up.”

Bucky froze, waited, turned on one foot to fix Steve with an incredulous expression.

“You cannot be serious,” he finally managed. “I...I didn’t even know you were seriously applying anywhere. I know you’re graduating in a few months, but…or...I guess I should have _expected_ you’d be--”

“Stop,” Steve said. “I don’t even know if I’m going to take it. I might not even get it.”

“You might get it.”

“It’s in Texas.”

Bucky’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“You want to go be gay in Texas?” he said, to cover whatever emotional reaction would surge in him next, and Steve snorted in amusement.

“Well, no. But there are lots of other reasons not to take it. The fact that you’re here for another two years being one of them.”

“Don’t,” Bucky snapped. “Don’t put this on me.”

“I’m not putting this on you,” Steve snapped back. “I’m considering all the different angles, and this is something to be considered. You are something to be considered.”

“What’s the job?”

“Art liaison. It’s with a non-profit that works to rescue and reintegrate people who have been caught up in sex trafficking. It’s mostly women from the US who have been forced into the life against their will. Some men and some international victims, too. Lots of them are really traumatized, and offering a medium to express themselves is helpful and powerful.”

“Steve, that sounds perfect for you. You’d have to take it.”

“I don’t know that I’m ready to move. I don’t know that I’m ready for a full time job. I have things I want to do on my own, too. Work I want to do and make.”

“If you get offered a job straight out of college, _in your field_ , you fucking take it. Everyone knows that.” Bucky wasn’t even pretending that he was looking through the clothes anymore, although Steve was stubbornly continuing to leaf through hangers.

“I’ll consider the decision from all sides, _assuming_ I even get it.”

“Are you having to fly to Texas for the interview, or are you doing it online?”

“Nah, she said she’s going to be here in the city.”

Bucky cocked his head in confusion and said, “That’s really abnormal.”

“Is it? It’s not really my area. We’ve already determined my level of expertise on the subject of interviews.”

“Be sure and ask her why she’s here. At least you’ll get points for perception.”

Steve nodded and pulled another shirt out from where it was squished between two others, which in turn pulled the other two off their hangers. The subject dropped as they both bent down to fix the mess.

 

***

 

The only reason Bucky answered the phone was because he didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello?” he said, half distracted by struggling to pause the video that still had another seven minutes left on the countdown. Lousy timing.

“James,” he heard in response, and he physically jerked the phone away from his ear to double check the caller ID. He didn’t recognize the number - not to mentioned he’d blocked the house phones - so Alexander must be calling from an office phone. Bucky slowly returned the phone to his ear.

“--to gain by forcing me to chase you down like an overeager woman. The embarrassment alone--”

“Stop,” Bucky interrupted. “Stop calling me.”

“You can’t just walk away--”

“Yes, I can,” Bucky pushed. His adrenaline had gone from nothing to overdrive in a few heartpounds, and he knew his voice was shaking badly enough to be heard. Badly enough to be unimpressive and unintimidating

“You want me to just cut all ties with you?” Alexander responded. “Leave you without a backup plan or a safety net in a world that you have never learned to navigate? Family is the only thing--”

“Go ahead,” Bucky snapped. He had to move his other hand up to help him stabilize the phone; he felt like this whole body was shaking. “You are welcome to cut all ties. Disown me completely. I’ll manage. You are welcome to tell whatever lies you want about what happened to me. I’ll manage. You are welcome to think up whatever horrible things you want to say to me and send them on postcards from obscure addresses. I’ll manage. I have been taught to manage. Provided ways to manage. And none of that came from you.” He was yelling. Practically screaming, and he hadn't noticed when his voice had risen.

“You need to calm down. Obviously you’re too worked up over whatever perceived slight I’ve committed against you and are therefore being unreasonable. I’ll give you some time to consider your actions before I contact you again. I hope you--”

“You do that,” Bucky spat. “But you’ll have to find a different number, because this one will be blocked. I will block it. And then I will block the next one, and the next.”

He hung up, dropping the phone to the floor immediately afterward. He took several deep breaths, glancing at the remaining seven minutes on the lecture video.

“Shitty fucking timing,” he said, shakily, and then burst into inexplicable tears.

 

***

 

“They said they couldn’t block a whole building,” Bucky explained. He was laying face first in Steve’s stomach, getting his hair pet, while he vented about the experience. “So I’ll have to keep doing this. He can just keep using other people’s office lines until I break and at least let him explain in the hope that he’ll be satisfied and leave me alone for a while.”

The reflexive tightening of Steve’s grip in his hair was grounding.

“I’m gonna start answering any strange numbers for you,” he insisted.

“Don’t be stupid,” Natasha sighed. “Can’t block an entire building. They’re _landlines_. You want to talk cellphones, then that gets more difficult, but acting like you can’t block specific landlines. If there’s a database with the numbers in the building, you have a list of blocked numbers. End of discussion.”

“There’s no way it’s as easy--”

“Do you think he’d stoop to asking other people to borrow their cell phones?” she continued.

“No, but--”

“Do you think he’d go to the trouble of getting a burner cell just to call you?”

“I don’t know, but--”

“Well, he’d still probably use his own name, so It’s a complication, but it's still not impossible.”

“Natasha!” Bucky exclaimed, raising his head. “What are you talking about?”

She stood, gathering her things, and crossed the room to pat Bucky condescendingly on the cheek.

“I’ll take care of it, pet,” she said. Then she was gone.

“How could she possibly?” Bucky asked Clint.

“Fuck if I know,” Clint shrugged. “I stopped asking questions a long time ago. It doesn’t get you anywhere but sleeping on the couch till you learn to mind your manners.”

 

***

 

Two weeks later Bucky picked up the phone in the middle of another lecture video. This time is was from Steve, but the first ringtone still threw his heart up into his throat. It was the day of Steve's interview, and Bucky hadn’t been able to focus all day.

“I know why she was in the city,” Steve said. First thing when he heard the call connect.

“Why?” Bucky asked, throat thick.

“They’re opening another branch here. As in, they already have the building rented. As in, they’re hiring _for here_.”

Bucky stood up from the couch without noticing.

“As in no Texas?” he tried.

“As in no moving at all!” Steve practically shouted. “Apparently she’d mentioned that in one of the emails she’d sent, and I either didn’t understand or I didn’t read it properly. I don’t know. I’m...I’m shaking right now, yelling on the phone in a parking lot like a moron.”

“How did the interview go then?”

“She offered me a job, right there. Bucky, I fucking _took_ it. I...I might regret being so quick, but I wanted it.”

“Holy shit.”

“It’s not perfect,” Steve continued. Bucky heard the car door open and close. Seat belt clicking. Car turning over.

“Sounds pretty perfect to me. You seem excited. And happy. That’s the definition of perfect.”

“Well, I haven’t told you everything yet. The salary is off the charts low. It’s below minimum wage low. She said that it’s probably going to stay that low for at least a year, while they get settled in a new area and try to raise local funding. It’s practically volunteer work.”

“But it’s a salary.”

“Technically, and it is supposed to rise with increasing funding. Assuming I stick with it.”

“Okay so what’s the problem?”

“Bucky, I can’t live on the numbers she talked about. I’m going to have to get a second job at...at _Starbucks_ or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll just get married and I’ll support you financially as you play a struggling artist, hell bent on making it big. We’ll be iconic.”

“I’m not going to let you support me financially,” Steve scoffed. “I technically still owe you money as it stands. I’ll figure something out. Go to work in the morning and then second job at night.”

“And sleep when?”

“Whenever. I’m young! This is the time to not sleep! Supposedly my hours will be highly flexible, in partial reparations for the non-existent salary. I’ll work it out.”

“Steve, at least let me contribute _something_ . I know I don’t have access to the resources I did a few months ago, but I can still help a little. And I’ll have a salary in a few years, too. _We’ll_ work it out together.”

Steve made a clearly irritated noise in his throat, but he said, “I’ll think about it,” and that was as good of a win you could get from Steve in an argument.

Neither of them noticed the assumption of a continuing relationship in their language. Or, at least, neither of them commented on it.

 

***

 

Steve didn’t think it would have been possible for him to be the more nervous of the two when the day of the step exam finally arrived. Clint had opted for a slightly earlier test date, preferring the break, but Bucky had considered it more important to give himself enough time to make up for the weeks he had wasted early in the semester. As a result, it was late June when the day finally arrived.

“Last daily step question,” Steve said. “Ever. Are you ready?”

“Go for it,” Bucky grinned, all geared up. He was fully dressed, mug of peppermint tea in one hand, and car keys in the other.

“A forty-two year old man is undergoing emergency abdominal surgery, due to an obstructive kidney stone in the left ureter. Upon opening the area, the surgeon sees three tubular structures. He--”

“Oh please,” Bucky scoffed.

“Let me finish!” Steve insisted, and Bucky obligingly gestured for him to go ahead. “Of the three structures, one is a vein, one is an artery, and one is a ureter. Which structure--”

“The ureter is most posterior if you’re at the level of the aortic bifurcation. After that it wraps around,” he made a swooshing motion with his hand, “and becomes anterior.”

Steve scanned the answers, tapped the corresponding multiple choice answer, and grinned.

“Correct!” he announced.

“Easy question,” Bucky said, even as he took his phone back from Steve.

“Bullshit,” Steve rejected, pushing up on his tiptoes to kiss Bucky. “You’ve just got this in the bag.”

“Well,” Bucky said, leaning down to kiss Steve back, “It’s not like I’m arguing that." The he straightened up and held his arms out. "How do I look? Like someone they'll let into third year?"

"One hundred percent," Steve said. Leaned up for a final goodbye kiss. Received it. Stepped back.

"See you on the other side," Bucky said, opening the door and stepping out into the summer air, and Steve waved one last time before the door swung shut.

"You've got this," he whispered, to himself and to the closed door. And it was nice to be able to both say it and mean it.

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Epilogue**

 

“I don’t need you pampering me,” Bucky insisted, pushing Natasha’s arms away.

In response, she fixed him with a withering glare that promptly had him folding his hands behind his back and allowing her access to his tie.

“You definitely need me pampering you,” Natasha said dryly. “You might have the privilege of calling yourself _doctor_ now, but that’s not going to change the fact that I’ll always remember you as the snot-nosed brat I met two years ago. The one who couldn’t crawl out from under his own bed without being dragged by someone who had both feet planted on solid ground.”

“Gee thanks. You’re doing wonders for my nerves.”

“I’m trying to be nostalgic, Dr. Barnes. Not mean.”

“Well, you suck at it.”

She took his face in her hands at that, and Bucky thought for a moment that she was about to jerk him down to her level, but her grip was unexpectedly soft and gentle as she tilted his head to look her in the eye.

“I am proud of you,” she said. “We might have had to drag you to your feet kicking and screaming, but when you got there you stayed standing. And when you were certain in your stance, you risked taking first steps. And when your steps became more sure, you learned to run.”

“Fell down plenty during that process,” Bucky muttered, trying to pull his face away. “You’re leaving that out.”

“Shut up or I will slap you, and you can deal with any photos of you from this day including a bright red handprint. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Because I do not give a fuck about the road you took to get here, because you got here. Not everyone gets here. God knows the numbers I’ve left behind who found cold dirt to be an acceptable alternative to where you’re standing right now.”

“Tasha.”

“I said shut up.” She abruptly released his face, and turned to look at the doors in the front of them. “Now, how does my dress look?”

Instead of inspecting the dress, Bucky took a step forward and leaned over Natasha’s shoulder to press a gentle kiss to her cheek.

“Thank you,” he said.

Natasha tilted her head back, murmuring something in Russian and looking at the ceiling in the universal gesture used to keep from crying.

“Everybody ready?” Anna asked, sweeping into the room, Sharon behind her. “And the answer had better be yes, because it’s time and I will not let this day go wrong just because my brother never learned how to properly tie a tie or something else stupid like that.”

“We’re ready,” Bucky said. “We’re perfect.”

Natasha responded by again muttering something to herself in Russian, but she then stepped into position behind Sharon and Anna, pinching her lips together and staring straight ahead.

“Don’t trip,” she whispered fiercely back to Bucky, as the doors were pulled open.

“I’m not going to trip,” Bucky said, just loudly enough for Natasha to hear over the music. “I made it through medical school. That’s way more difficult than navigating the aisle on my wedding day.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who stuck with me through this Experience. Gods know, I certainly bit off more than I could chew, but I wanted to challenge myself to learn and grow as a writer, and I'd like to think I at least did that. If nothing else, it was a weird form of self-therapy and a demonstration of how terrible I am at writing falling action.
> 
> Anyway. As always, you can find me on my [tumblr](http://polyamoryavengers.tumblr.com/) for Marvel headcanons and one-shots.
> 
> And again, thank you to you all. For your support, your time, and your own views and experiences that you brought to this narrative.


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